


The Place We Call Home

by Falconcloaked



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky is a soft bean, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Hiking, Homelessness, Homophobia, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Other, POV First Person, POV Original Character, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Recovery, Romance, Shapeshifting, Top Bucky Barnes, Touch-Starved, Trauma, they travel a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-10-28 06:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 78,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17781911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falconcloaked/pseuds/Falconcloaked
Summary: "When you told me your story, you could barely speak a word, and I was sure you'd never start to recover. Such horrors can't be defeated, not even by someone like him, I thought. But I should've known better about you. And look at yourself now.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (very) long fic about a romantic relationship between Bucky and an original nonbinary character. I couldn't find any fic on this topic so I thought, why the hell not?
> 
> It was written as a personal challenge: what if I could write down an entire story in English-which is not my native language? I've been preparing it for one year now, worked on rewriting and correcting it several times, but please keep in mind there will be a lot of mistakes and spelling issues.

You told me once, that time when I was bored to death and you caught me staring as you wrote things in your notebook, that maybe I could do the same. _But I don’t know shit about writing,_ I replied, _and what the hell could I write about? My stupid life?_

I remember the way you laughed like it was yesterday.

I know I joked and we never mentioned it again. But now, sitting down there while you sleep behind that fucking ice, I can't do nothing but wait and yearn. Good god, I think I've changed my mind.

If you ever have the misfortune to read that, please don’t laugh. I was never a writer and this is, as you suggested that time, a random gathering of my thoughts and everyday life since I’ve met you. We’ve built our way through the small moments of our journey: how you looked at me that day, a long walk in the woods at dawn, some old songs we sang together before sleeping. Your hand on my shoulder. Our most meaningful memories are made of such instants, I guess.

To be fair, you should write it down yourself: you're way better with words than I am. And yes, it means I’ve put my nose in some of your notebooks—I know I shouldn’t have.

But, my love, this is the only thing I have left from you right now.

This story, it’s my gift to you, and an apology. Since I’ve read your most intimate thoughts, you deserve to know everything from my own perspective. You changed my whole existence—for the better. You know, I thought I was doing fine on my own, until I met you. Turns out I had lost all sense of purpose over the years, and I was just wandering around like some feral beast. And instead of trying to tame me, you managed to set me free and loved me as I am deep inside.

For that, I owe you a goddamn one.

So, enough rambling, right? Let’s start. It's a story about you, as you should've guessed by now. It was always about you.

 

_——_

_Somewhere in New York, September 2014_

 

Unlike the books I used to read as a kid, it didn’t start with some epic fight or that kind of bullshit. No, for me, it was yet another boring day. Finding some money, avoiding big crowds, eating, sleeping. Planning my next winter outside the city. Nothing unusual.

For you, however, that day was about surviving through both your mind’s and the world’s hostility. You were trying to figure out things on your own: a lost cause, as you told me later on.

And me, well I was a stranger. Not exactly a threat, but an intruder who popped that precarious bubble of safety you had built so far.

 

Once I've paid for some shitty, greasy junk food thrown on a plastic tray, I start looking for a nice spot. I come to that place every once in a while, when I'm tired of eating expired cans and boiled rice. It doesn’t deserve the title of restaurant, but it's cheap and quiet. Today, however, it's full, and my regular table in the corner has been taken by a dude I had never seen here before.

“Hey, man. Mind if I take a seat?”

You raise your eyes from your own tray, but they don't reach mine. You blink, just once; fear and defiance cross your face as your gloved fingers curl tighter around your fork. One more time, and the hardness in your gaze is replaced by something that looks like an intense craving.

_Odd_ , I think, but I've seen worst.

Eventually, you allow yourself to nod. “Thank you,” I say, cautious, as I sit in front of you and put my stuff on the table. You look like you could be startled by a falling leaf, so I stop staring at you and I begin to eat as if I was all alone.

You’re hunched over your meal again as you eat at a quick pace, even though your gaze flicker in my direction from time to time. A few strands of greasy hair hide your expression under your worn cap. They’re sticking to your cheeks, but you don’t bother putting them back in place. You look like an abandoned dog gone feral, and maybe that’s who you are in that moment. Well, that makes two of us.

The French fries are soggy and taste like chalk, and the tomato soup is already cold, but it's food, and I'm not gonna waste any of that. That sandwich, though—I didn't notice there was turkey slices inside. _Ugh_.

You're done eating now. You're still starved, though, judging by the way you're eyeing my own meal.

“Want my sandwich? I won't have that one, it's fucking meat, so—you can have it. If you want.”

You have a hesitant sigh, as if I was offering you some poisoned apple, but hunger is stronger and you nod again.

“Thanks,” you say quietly as I gently push it before you with a small smile. It's the first time I hear your voice, and I'm not gonna forget it. It's both smooth and rusty, and you sound tired and so wholehearted at the same time, like your forgot how to use that word during a long, long time.

“Man, you look like you could swallow the whole building.” I let out a soft laugh that you ignore, already gulping down my sandwich.

I take another look at your face. In another life, you were probably the man everyone was falling for. In another life. Now your eyes are empty, your hair and your beard unkempt, your lips chapped because of cold nights. The streets are harsh to everyone, especially young people. It hasn't broken me yet, but it probably broke you some time ago.

“How long have you been without eating?” I ask, trying to start a conversation.

“I—” You shrug. “Don't remember.”

“What kind of guy doesn’t remember his last meal?”

Wrong question. You frown and stiffen all of a sudden. You're done eating, and you put your hands under the table. You're shaking a little now. “I should get going. Thanks for the food.” It’s barely a whisper.

Before I can say anything, you're standing up, hands in your pockets, shoulders tensed as if the sky is about to fall down right on your head. One second and you're out, another and you vanish in the dense crowd.

Like you never existed.

_Weirdo_ , I tell myself, trying to ignore the fact I’m feeling kinda guilty.

What a clueless idiot I was back then, uh?

 

——

 

Autumn rain is pouring down like never as I hurry up to my shelter. If I'm lucky, it's not flooded yet. If I'm not... well, we'll figure that out.

As I reach the abandoned building and start climbing down the stairs to the basement, a faint smell suddenly overruns my nose. And it’s not mine.

_Intruders_ , I think as my stomach drops. I know that smell, but from where? This isn't good at all. I take a few silent, careful steps in the dark corridor, until my foot bumps into a small item. It’s my lock, broken; the heavy metal door is slightly open. There's someone here. Terrified, I grab my pocket knife from my coat and give a soft push to the door to slip in the room.

Something moves with an odd whirring next to my right ear, and before I can react, a strong grip tightens around my throat. It's cold, it's hard, it looks like a—a hand? And I can’t see a damn thing. I gotta shapeshift quick and fight back before I get killed.

But the grip suddenly loosens. I can breathe again. _The fuck?_ is the only thought looping in my brain right now.

“Sorry,” says a soft voice out of nowhere and then there’s a few step back.

I heard it before. “Oh shit,” I stutter, coughing, hands on my knees. “You're the guy from yesterday.”

What the hell is going on? Did that creep followed me around all day? My fingers are shaking around my knife. I allowed myself to be weak. Now I'm gonna regret that, fuck.

“Sorry I—I scared you,” you say again, and that time, I'm sure it's you.

“That’s my fucking home, what are you doing here?” I’m doing my best to act confident. I must regain control of this situation, as shitty as it may be right now. Men are unpredictable, and it’s so dark I can't even see that one. He could do anything and I—

I take a step in the dark as the invisible figure remains silent. I grab a lighter and the candle I left on a cardboard box before going out this morning. Now that's better.

You're standing in the middle of the room, hiding your left hand behind your back. I make a face and look around. My shelter has been meticulously searched, but nothing was destroyed or taken. Yet.

What if you were a goddamn cop working undercover? Shit. I’ve been so careless.

“What the fuck are you looking for? You followed me?” I ask. I'm angry now. And frightened. But who the hell is this guy if he thinks he can break in my place and rummage through my stuff?

“Sorry... I—No, didn't follow—thought there was nobody here.”

Bullshit. I don’t buy it. Nobody else but me knows that spot. And I don’t believe in coincidences.

“Guess what, there’s me! What do you want? More food, or what?”

All of a sudden your whole face gets whiter than I thought it was possible and it looks like you're about to cry. But you don't, and I'm not supposed to feel anything for a stranger in the streets, but man, in that moment, I realize that you're desperate. The way you're holding your right arm against your belly, it's obviously injured. And you're even dirtier than during our shared lunch. Is this a bruise on your temple?

You're not a threat, I guess. But that grip… it almost got me for sure.

“Well shit,” I sigh. “You were just looking for a dry place for the night, that's it?” You nod. Water is dripping from your damp hair into a small puddle at your feet. You might be a grown ass man but you’re looking so weak. And good god, I’m not a monster.

“Look at you, you're soaked. I'm... sorry I yelled. You gave me a good scare, you know,” I say softly.

As I say this, I come closer and raise my hand to touch your shoulder in a friendly gesture. No need to mention how fast I regretted that, right? There’s a shining glimpse, the same whirring sound than earlier, and this time it’s my arm you’re crushing with your fingers. I gasp and try to pull back but as I lower my eyes to your left hand, I fall silent and forget about the pain.

That shit is made of goddamn metal.

“No,” you whisper to yourself, releasing my wrist are fast as you caught it, and I take a deep, relieved breath. You're startled, or should I say horrified. Like you’ve just committed a crime or something. You take a step back and grab your weird left hand with your right as if you were trying to stop it from causing more harm.

That evening couldn’t get anymore more confusing, but it is.

“I shouldn't be here. I'm leaving you alone. Sorry.”

“Wait, no,” I say, raising a hand, but I don't touch you this time. “It's nothing. Really.” My brain is urging me to leave this place fast and run away, but I’ve always been an idiot. “You didn’t want to harm me, I shouldn’t have touched you anyway.”

You stare at me like you don't believe a word of what I'm saying. A wild deer freezing in headlights. You're terrified now, with your jaw quivering and your hand clutching at the other. Soaked from head to toes, you’re looking around you like every shadow hides a threat and I don't know what to do, except that I can’t let you leave my place in that state. You need help, it's obvious. Even if it’s dangerous for me. Even if that’s supposed to be none of my business.

_Dumbass._

I don’t think a single night in a rat hole like mine will help you a lot, but that’s the least I can do at this point.

“Let me guess. You're—you're trying to hide from something? Or someone?”

Your silence tells me all I need to know. You don't move an inch, even though I just guessed your little secret.

“Man, I’ve been there before. I know what it’s like, and you're free to leave if you want to, of course, but with that rain... You can stay here for a while, too. It's safe here. And dry. Okay?”

“Okay,” you say eventually.

“It's not the best place in New York, and sorry about the damn smell, I'm not really used to have any guests—” Shit, I'm talking rubbish. Human conversations have been scarce these days. “But there's clean water, toilets that work most of the time, and I have some food if you're hungry. We'll have to share the mattress, however, or I can sleep on the floor. Up to you.”

You shrug. What do I do with that kind of answer?

“What's your name, by the way?” You shake your head, lips sealed in a thin line. A wordless pleading in your gaze.

“I understand,” I say, though I don’t. I can get why one doesn’t want to say their name, I’ve done it myself, but this? It’s like you’re begging me to avoid that topic. Anyway.

“Well, you should remove your coat before you catch a cold. And I think I have a few spare clothes if you wish to change. It should fit? Let me see.”

I pick up a pair of trousers and a shirt from my backpack and I hand them to you. At least they're clean and dry. Once again you speak no word, but your body language reveals your gratitude as you carefully catch the clothes in your left hand. The way it moves is rather unsettling and I try not to look too much at it.

_This is the weirdest evening ever_ , I think as I turn around to unpack my stuff and give you some privacy.

Most of the food I got today is moist now, but I’ll deal with that later. I light up more candles then I remove my own wet clothes. I’m putting an old sweater when I hear a muffled sigh behind me.

“Are you okay?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder. You've removed your cap and you’re now wearing my trousers—it's a little tight but it's doing the job. You seem to have trouble with your coat, though, and I notice your right shoulder doesn't move the way it should.

“Can I help you?”

Startled, you take a moment to answer: “Yes. Please.”

Slowly, making sure I don’t touch you, I remove the damp coat from your shoulders. According to the sounds you make, it’s painful. Your wet hair brushes your neck as I do the same with your shirt, an old thing you probably found in a trashcan, full of holes and the colors reduced to a dull grey tone. “Here, you can take it back tomorrow when it’s dry,” I say before hanging your clothes to the back door. Your tee isn't wet, even though it has a strong sweat smell.

I try not to touch the metal of your left arm as I help you. It's making soft, robot-like noises as you move it. “Is it a prosthesis?” I ask, handing you a hoodie I’ve probably had since I was sixteen. You take a look down at the arm and nod. “Man, it's the first time I see something like that. It's almost like a real fucking arm—“

“But it's not,” you say, frowning.

I want to ask how you got it. There are a lot of questions I want to ask you, to be fair. But something tells me it's not a good idea, not for now. You might flee like you did at the restaurant. Instead I help you put the hoodie on, then I invite you to sit down on the broken car seat I put next to the mattress. You probably need a good rest now.

For a long moment, none of us say anything as I finish setting up the food on a shelf. “You scared…?” You ask suddenly, with that blank tone I’m starting to be used to. Your hands are clasped together, your right thumb slowly stroking the other. You’re looking at nothing in particular. Hell, I had never seen such an empty expression before; not even in the eyes of drug addicts.

“I’m not. You didn't try anything fucked up for now, and I hope it'll stay that way. Anyway, I should get that door blocked, since you broke my lock. Then we'll eat something.” My voice is shaking. Why is it shaking right now? I'm not even afraid anymore, right?

There's a heavy steel shelf in a corner of the room, near the door. It's empty now but when I found the place, it was full of rusted trash. I guess that part of the basement served as a workshop a long time ago. Convenient for me, at least. I can move the shelf in front of the door so it won't be opened from the outside. Not that safe, but it's all I've got until I can find a new padlock.

“See? If you need to leave for any reason, you can move it too.” And if you try anything, I still have the backdoor. “I hope you enjoy canned food, it's all I've got”, I say while turning on my gas stove. You don't answer but I swear I can hear your stomach emitting loud noises from where I am standing. Man, it's like you have years of starvation to catch up with.

Which is true, as I'll find out soon enough.

Once the food is warm thanks to my small camping stove, we eat in complete silence. I can see how much you're relieved now. It's the second time I feed you in two days; what I don't know yet is that it's going to become a habit. When we're done, I put the dishes away, sit down on the mattress and place a few shabby blankets on it.

“Where do you wanna sleep? That seat is wrecked, you’re gonna kill you back if you stay there. As I said, you can have the bed and I’ll get the floor. I don’t mind.”

Your eyes flicker from the mattress to the cold, dusty ground, before going back and focusing to the bed. “There’s room for two,” you say like an evidence, before drifting back to your thoughts.

“Well, yes.” I shrug, unsure about what to do.

God this is so awkward. I mean it's not the first time I share a bed with another wanderer like myself; but I'm still wary about you. It’s been years since the last time I’ve slept next to someone else, let alone a man.

But look at you. You haven't moved from the car seat since you sat down, lost in your own mind, like you're miles and miles away. You definitely don't look like a creep. A weirdo, sure, but not a bad one.

Plus, you must think I’m a guy too, right? Since I did nothing to let you know about the truth. It feels safer that way.

So that night, I had no reason to trust you. Yet I did. You could say I’ve been a complete idiot and I couldn’t agree more. Blame it on my instinct, which told me it was the best thing I could do. Both for you and me. And you know how much I trust my guts.

“Come on, let’s get some sleep,” I say with a gentle tug at your sleeve.

You take a quick, surprised breath. Your eyes meet mine and for a split second you don't seem to recognize me at all. I try a smile, hoping it will soothe your fear, wherever it comes from. You just whisper, “okay”, then you remove your worn shoes and lie down on your back on the mattress, eyes already closed. I do the same on the other side, leaving as much space between us as I can.

There’s something deeply unsettling about the way you move, speak and act, though I can’t put my finger on it. l can’t help but feel like you just obeyed me; it’s crippling. I didn’t give you any order. Why would I?

You must be cold, and I feel bad about what just happened, so I take a blanket and put it on you.

“Here. Don’t want you to get sick under my roof, man,” I joke. “Anyway, I’m Jules. Figured you might wanna know.”

You open your eyes and turn your head to stare at me for a troubling amount of time, and I find myself shivering under the intensity of that gaze.

I’ve said it before: it's the weirdest moment of my life. Really. Weirder than all the things that have happened to us over the last two years. I’m right there, lying next to a complete stranger, some lost stray dog I found digging in my trashcan. I never really allowed myself to help random men before. A whole decade of wandering around the country taught me not to do such stupid things. I helped a few women, though. They're more trustworthy. At least for most of them.

And here I am, allowing a complete stranger to sleep a few inches away from me. As I write it down, I realize that first night was decisive for the unbelievable bond I think we share now. Back then? Good god, I was so confused.

But had I not chosen this path and gave you my trust, what would've happened to you?

 

A faint noise wakes me up in the middle of the night. I thought I’d never relax enough to sleep; now an annoying weight settles in my gut as I remember someone I barely know is lying next to me.

I open my eyes and look around to find what startled me in the dark. A dying candle is flickering near the head of the mattress. I can hear the rain pouring down—will it ever stop? The rough call of a poor cat who's probably spending the night outside, and on my left, a mumbling, continuous sound.

So that's what it was. You are now lying on your side, just in front of me, a little closer than before falling asleep. Your eyes are squeezed shut and your entire body is shaking. Your lips are moving fast as words spill out of your mouth, and I can't understand any of it.

If you're having a dream, then it's a very awful one. Should I wake you up? Your metal hand is clutching the blanket with a little buzzing sound. I look at those shiny, strangely delicate fingers; I'm sure they could tear me down before I can even lay my hand on you.

So I keep looking at you, uneasy, and when I finally find the strength to do something, to get you out of your dream, you wake up with a long, gut-wrenching scream.

Shit, you're so scared it’s heartbreaking.

“You okay?” I whisper. “You were mumbling in your sleep. I was worried.”

You open your mouth, raising your head. “What did I say?”

“I don't know. Couldn’t understand any of it. Sounded like Russian, maybe? Whatever you were saying, it looked painful.”

You sigh and let your cheek rest on the mattress again, closing your eyes for a moment.

“You have a lot of nightmares, don't you?”

You shake your head, swallowing down. “Not nightmares. Memories,” you reply after a while. It looks like you don't want to let the words out, but they will claw their way out of your mouth no matter what you do. As if they  _had_ to escape.

“Oh. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have guessed you were Russian, though. No accent or anything.”

“I'm not.”

“American, then?”

“No.”

“Then where are you from?” I ask, puzzled.

“I don't know.”

You had never talked this much until this moment, but even now it looks like it’s causing you an immense pain. I try to give you a compassionate smile and I lie down, my face just a few inches away from yours. It doesn’t seem to bother you. Which is weird.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Why would you?”

Good question. Why would I? Because I pity you? Definitely not. Because I'm already starting to like you, against all odds? That's more likely. But I won't admit it.

“I don't know,” I say, shrugging. “Looks like you're all alone in your life. I can see there's a lot of weight on your shoulders.”

_You have no idea_ , your face tells me, even though you don’t say a word.

“I’m sure I’d like to get some help if I was in your situation, so—" I shrug, uneasy. "I can't do much, but as long as you're here, I'll do what I can and make sure nothing bad happens.” I add this on a whim; I don't even know why. It’s probably too much. Your lips tighten. You don't believe me, do you? I can't blame you. I'm a complete stranger too, so you have a lot of good reasons to be defiant.

“Anyway. You should go back to sleep now,” I mumble.

“Not sure I can.”

“Do you want me to wake you up if you're having bad dreams again?”

“Yes. But…" Your voice gets so low I think I've misheard: "Be careful.”

You bet I will.

You close your eyes, hesitant, still shaken by your dream. Your face is covered with drying sweat and your hair is stuck all over the stubble on your cheeks. If that moment wasn't so sad, I'd say you're beautiful—in your own way.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and I catch myself holding my breath. Whatever I'm feeling right now, it doesn't please me at all.

Oh, what an uncanny night. And it's only the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of past abuse.
> 
> From now on I'll try to publish a new chapter every Wednesday!

 

_An abandoned building, September 2014_

 

A soft knock on the door—I jump, startled, throwing my book on the ground. I’m at the door two seconds later, fists clenched, ready for a fight. Who knows I'm down here? I knew I should’ve fixed that damn lock as soon as possible.

But as I open the door with a little kick, I’m less surprised than I should be. Of course.

“Hey. You're back.”

We both hold our breath; silence stretches out between us for so long I’m afraid you’ve lost your tongue.

“Hey,” you reply after an eternity, and I exhale deeply.

For the first time, you look right at me. Your eyes are wide open in the basement's semi-darkness. Is it fear or some sort of... want? You take a step towards me.

“I—” Your shoulders tighten up and you grit your teeth, as if you were bracing yourself before speaking. “I forgot, your clothes.” As I'm about to tell you that it's nothing, you can keep it, really, we gotta help each other in this hell of a city, you add: “What I broke, too.” You hand me a big lock with two keys attached to the ring; your metal fingers brush my hand and I shiver, troubled. Well, that was certainly unexpected. Did you steal it or something?  “And—” Your voice breaks. You find yourself unable to end your sentence.

“Rough day?” I ask.

You nod slightly.

“The cops?”

A shrug.

“So. You're a fugitive, am I right?”

A whisper, and it’s so thin I can only hear it because of the heavy silence that follows my question: “Maybe...”

Yesterday, your voice wasn’t that hoarse. Where did you go? After you left early in the morning, thanking me one last time for my hospitality, I thought I'd never see you again. But here you are, looking even more miserable than before. I take a few steps back to welcome you. Is this going to become a habit?

_You’re gonna end up in a jail like an idiot,_ an annoying little voice mocks in my head. I don’t care; they could never find me during the last ten years. Let them fucking try. And if I’m safe here, then you are too. In theory, at least.

“Come,” I say with a vague gesture. “Feel free to stay, this time. If you don’t know where to go.”

You remove your backpack—you didn’t have it yesterday—and drop it on the floor with a faint hiss. Lifting your right shoulder seems to cause you a lot of pain. I have to admit, its kinda concerning.

“You should sit down a moment,” I suggest. “Man, why don't we take a look at your arm? It's really messed up, uh?”

You get a strange look on your face but you _comply—_ there's no other word for it, as much as I hate what it’s implying. You sit down on the car seat just like yesterday, stiff, acting like a goddamn machine. Definitely not like a functioning human being. And to be fair, the way you used to move around really creeped me out during those first few days.

“Can you remove your coat and your top? I know some basic stuff about injuries. Maybe I can do something about it, if it’s not too serious. No, not your tee, that should be enough.” Don’t make things even more awkward, please.

Once you're done, I kneel on the floor in front of you and I carefully lift the sleeve of your tee. Your right shoulder is swollen, a little bruised, and it looks like something is wrong with the joint.

“Shit. Alright. Is it broken? No, it doesn’t look like that. Dislocated, then?”

“Don't know,” is your only answer. Fine...

“One time, I fell on my shoulder in the middle of the woods. Don’t ask me how, that was stupid. It looked the same. I put it back myself, let me tell you, it was a damn mess and I probably fucked it up even more, but it healed eventually. I can give a try, though I never did that on someone else so... What do you think?”

You shrug—again. Shit, why do you act like you don't give a fuck about your own body? You're looking at nothing in particular and your mouth is slightly open. I can’t help but notice the alluring curve of your lips—tempting, should I say—but in that situation, with the look on your face, it’s disturbing more than anything. Are you high or something?

“I'd rather take you to the closest hospital, you know,” I say, putting a lot of concern in my voice. Just say something, for heaven's sake. I need to know what you think.

Your jaw clenches, you frown and for the very first time you look sure of yourself: “No. No hospital. Please. No.” At least, that's a reaction.

“Okay then. I’ll do my best but I’m no doctor. So I'm gonna grab your arm and put it back where it's supposed to be. It will be painful but if I do this right then you'll feel way better in a few days. Are you ready?”

My hand slides on your right wrist and I give a slight stroke to your forearm, to make sure I can touch you without danger. You skin is softer than I expected, with all this smooth, thin hair. _Don’t touch too much_ , I remind myself as I realize with mild horror how much I’ve been missing that kind of contact.

Scolding myself in silence, I put one hand on your elbow, the other on your shoulder, and I begin to work—doing as fast as I can without messing you up.

To my surprise, you don't make a sound. The pain you must be experiencing should be able to knock you down, and yet you barely blink. Even though you look like a very tough guy, it's supposed to be unbearable, right?

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Hurt less.” Now that I’m done, you're panting, though. I hope I haven't made things worse.

“Here, I'm gonna give you something to drink.” I stand up to get some water. “How did this happen, by the way? You fought with someone?”

After a while, you say: “Yes.”

“Shit. What kind of asshole did that to you?” I come back to you with a cup and sit down on the bed, as close to you as I can without startling you. You’re finally beginning to open up and I’m dying to learn more about your story.

“A targ—An old friend,” you stutter.

Interesting. Not the answer I was expecting.

“Well let me tell you, your friend is a complete jerk.”

A very tiny huff escapes from your parted lips. So you can laugh, after all? You drink slowly, holding the gobelet with your left hand. That thing really moves like a real appendage, with precision and spontaneity. Like it’s doing its own thing. It's almost frightening.

I always have a tub of anti-inflammatory cream somewhere in my bag, just in case. With your permission, I apply a large amount of it on your shoulder while you finish your drink. It must feel good, because you close your eyes like a cat and lean into the touch as I rub your sore skin with my fingertips. Your flesh arm looks as strong as the metal one, if that's even possible. I wonder what it’s like to be held by those arms.

There’s a sudden weight in my stomach: once again I’m letting myself being distracted by useless bullshit. My hand stops moving and rests on your biceps.

“How can I thank you,” you say flatly, waking me from my thoughts. You’re staring at me, unblinking.

“It was nothing. No, really. Let's say, maybe you stick with me until the same shit happens to me and you can do the same.” I laugh. “So we're even.”

You finally blink a few times, unsure. I'm just joking around. Not you: “Oh. Okay then,” you say, and without notice, you give a light squeeze to my hand—which is still on you, by the way—with your left. An odd parody of a handshake.

Like the rest of you, your palm is softer than it looks.

 

——

 

“Don't be mad, but you really need a good shower. You smell like a dead rat.”

“Sorry.”

“There's a homeless shelter I know, it's only a few blocks away, you can give them your dirty clothes so they wash it while you take a shower. It's free,” I explain. “You don't have to sleep there if you don't want to. Too much people for me, to be true. Shelters aren’t quiet, unlike the place I live in. Anyway, we can go tomorrow. If that suits you.”

We're walking down a crowded street together. Nobody's paying attention to us, but your gaze is all over the place, making sure we're not followed.

“It’s safe?” You ask.

“People don't ask any questions, if that's what you mean. Never had a single problem with them. We'll find a way to hide your arm and it should be alright. Don’t worry, I’ve got this!”

You nod, and for the first time today you start walking a little closer to me. You know that feeling when a random cat lets you pet it and it’s like you’ve just been blessed? Well this is silly, but I think I feel that way right now.

 

——

 

Lying down on the same old stinky mattress, a blanket on my lap, I'm reading a book about wild edible plants. It's never too late to gather some knowledge. You've read it with me for a while until you fell asleep next to me, peaceful as it seems. But I know your mind if only fillet with turmoil; your dreams, made of thick darkness and wordless horrors. Still, times like that are rare enough for me to catch myself staring at your face from time to time, my book entirely forgotten. The candles are drawing flickering figures on your cheekbone; a small crease makes a shadow between your eyebrows.

Did I mention you're pretty as hell?

It's been three weeks. We've been working outside most days, for guys who don't care if you have papers or not, to get some money. The docks provide an unlimited amount of illegal but easy jobs if you know where to look. Loading and unloading, that kind of stuff. Nothing that requires more than a few interactions a day. The rest of our time is spent getting some food and essential goods, or hiding when you feel like we're being tailed. Nothing bad has happened, though, and that’s a relief.

Ironically, every nightmare you’ve had so far has brought us a little closer, and I’ve discovered you're basically touch-starved, just like I am—and it’s still bothering me.

Now you're spending each night curled against me, my arm around your waist, my face buried in your long hair. You’re not afraid of presenting your back to me anymore, which is a huge progress. Besides, there's never more than a few inches between us. Night and day.

We’ve haven’t talked about this. I guess there can’t be any ambiguity between us: we only have to share heat and comfort. Nothing weird with that, huh?

Speaking about warmth, I noticed the weather is going very cold these days. A few more weeks, some more money, and it will be time for me to go back the countryside. Winter is nastier in a big city than in the woods, you know. What will you do then? Will we part ways?

I try not to think too much about it. It makes me feel anxious. Because the thing is, I enjoy your company. I mean we're together all the time. You're not the talkative kind of guy and you're reliable, quiet, trustworthy. You never tried anything bad against me. That fits all my expectations.

Let me be clear, sharing my whole space with another person wasn’t easy in the beginning. But while it was disturbing the first few days, now I love it, that's the damn truth. It's not love like that, I'm not some dumb teenager or anything, it's, just...  
  
I don't wanna leave you. I don’t know your name, you know practically nothing about me; everything is perfectly fine that way.

 

You jump with a loud shriek and I drop my book, scared to death. It's Russian again and it sounds like you're begging someone. Suddenly your left hand grabs my throat; my head hits the mattress as you pin me on my back. I can't breath and my heart is pounding in my ribcage. You're yelling now. I clutch your hard, cold wrist and manage to reach your face with my other hand. The only way to stop this is to calm you down. If I can't—

“Stop,” I spit. “It's me. It's Jules!”

Five endless seconds pass before your eyes go wide open and you release the crushing pressure on my trachea as fast as you can. You move back, land on your ass, panting, and we both take a moment to catch our breath. God it hurts. One more split second and I'd have been dead for sure.

“Oh no. No no no no—”

You're standing up, already putting your shoes on, then you take your backpack and your coat.

“Wait—where are you going?” I say with a croaking voice.

“I leave now. Can't stay. I'm sorry.” Your voice sounds hoarse too, and you rush to the door. “I'm so sorry.”

Despite the fog in my brain, I'm quickly getting on my feet and I run towards you, catching your wrist—the same that just tried to kill me—before you can vanish in the night.

“Please, don't. Stay. Please, stay with me,” I beg. You can't leave like that. “It wasn't your fault. It wasn't—it wasn't you, I'm not mad, I swear.”

You freeze, hand raised. It's shining in the dim light. Slipping my fingers between yours, I give a strong squeeze. Look, I'm not afraid.

“Please stay.”

“No. I’ve hurt you. I don't want this—”

“I know,” I cut. “I know you'd never do that on purpose.”

“Thing is—” You look at our joined hand, shaking. “I could. Hurt you again. Kill you. I didn't even recognize you—”

“You did, though. Am I wrong?”

You gasp as two unexpected tears start running on your cheeks. Oh god, you're crying; you never did before, and it breaks my heart, so I pull you as close as possible and suddenly you’re sobbing and weeping on my shoulder. So much pain. Too much for only one soul.

“There, there. Come.” I lead you back in the room and help you sit down on the mattress. Our hands are still clasped together, as if we were clinging on a lifeline. My throat is sore as fuck, and I'm not sure I'll be able to eat and drink tomorrow. Whatever.

I raise your hand to my mouth and kiss it gently, rubbing it with my thumb. You must be able to feel something with it, because you raise your gaze and sigh with disbelief between two sobs. I kiss it again, on the wrist, on those fingertips with the delicate plates that mimic nails. Shit, what the hell am I doing? That must looks so crazy.

“Why are you doing this?” You say.

“I don't know.” I shrug, covering your palm with my lips. The metal isn’t cold anymore now. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Please.” And you start crying even more and I hug you tighter and you know, it feels like I was supposed to do that my entire life. Hold you as close as I can. “I mean—Why do you do all this?”

I break the hug and slide my hand under your jawline to get a better look at your eyes. “Because I want to. I like you, man.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Well you're the nicest person I’ve met in like, half a decade, so—”

You make a strange sound, both laugh and sob.

“I'm not. You don't know what—what I've done.” Big tears are flowing free on your cheeks; I'm a little bit crying as well, all of it is so intense—and why am I feeling so emotional? I'm a cold-hearted guy. A wolf, goddamnit. Wolves never cry, right?

But I was wrong, you know: they do, sometimes, with their loved ones.

“Maybe you'd feel better if you tell me what happened. Sometimes it's bad to keep it all to yourself. Sometimes you gotta vent. Let everything get out.”

I know it works, because it did wonders on me a long time ago. You take a deep breath and lean on my shoulder.

“Wait, let me give you a tissue. You're leaking on me, man,” I say. After you’ve wiped your eyes, we lie down on the mattress, only a few inches between us. Our legs are kind of tangled together. It feels good—It feels like home, somehow. Without thinking, I cradle the back of your head with my free hand and stroke your temple.

At first you don’t say anything and you choose to keep your eyes closed. When you open them, you stare at me like you’re trying to find a hidden answer on my face.

“They made me do... things. For them,” you start in a whisper. You wipe your face with the tissue. The tip of your nose is all red now and to be fair, it's very cute, but I'm more concerned about your words.

_Things_? Were you abused or something? Oh god, no. Not that. Not you. I feel like I’m gonna puke and I do my best to hide my emotions.

“They made me a—a monster. And I killed for them. A lot of times.”

In a way, that's still better than what crossed my mind.

“But you didn't want to.”

“No. They had a way to… To force me into doing it. Hurt a lot. I wasn't myself anymore. Everything I thought I knew—gone. Wiped. Each time they needed me. And they gave me that arm. It's not a prosthesis. It's a weapon.”

“Man, this is so fucked up. It's fucking torture! They gotta pay for this. Who are they exactly? Fuck, just tell me and I'm gonna make them pay.” I mean it. I may look weak right now but I can have claws and fangs, too. But you shake your head, worried I might actually make a desperate attempt at avenging you.

“Whatever happens... Don't. They're everywhere. They're powerful. I don't even know how I could escape them.”

“Are you sure you're safe now?”

“I'm not. You neither. I should've told you earlier. My friend, he... He paid the price.”

“Don't worry about that,” I say. “That's when you got injured?" You nod. "When did it end?”

“Three months ago?”

“Wait, you mean you lived with a dislocated shoulder for three months!?”

“I'm not sure…”

“But it’s almost completely healed now. How’s that even possible?”

You shrug. “Everything is mixed up. Disconnected. I’m feeling weird all the time—”

I’ve noticed. The days you can’t talk at all, those moments when you’re sick as hell, puking everywhere. The sudden tremor, the excruciating nightmares. “What have they done to you? They used to drug you or something?”

“They never told me. If they find me and bring me back, they'll do it all over again. And I'll forget you. Probably kill you too.”

_And I'll forget you_. I find myself wordless, trying to imagine what it’s like, in vain. What an horrible perspective. I have so many questions. The kind you don't ask like that, because it's not appropriate. In the streets, people will tell you about their story when they feel comfortable enough to do so. If they don't, they don't. Simple as that. Still, I feel like there's something more with you. I can't put my finger on it.

“Is there anything you can remember? Your family, where you used to live, maybe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your birth date?”

You frown a little. “Yes. I’ve seen it in a museum. 1917.”

“In a museum?” I repeat, puzzled. “Wait, what did you just say?” I must’ve misheard.

“1917.”

“That's not possible,” I huff.

“I'm not lying. It was written on—”

“But it's fucking 2014 right now. You should be—damn, you don’t look like you’re so old!”

“I know.”

“Okay…” I’m not gonna try to understand how that could be possible. “Well for such an old man, you’re rather handsome.”

You snort between your tears. Hey, I made you laugh. I should get a prize or something.

“Not, but seriously?”

“I’ve got a few memories. From the war. Before, too.”

“The war. Like... World War Two. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“And you're still alive?”

“As you can see.”

I'm starting to have a huge headache. And I thought I was the oddest of us two. I know the world has become a strange place lately. So-called gods with hammers and that kind of crazy stuff I avoid like the plague. But still...

“How's that even possible? You must be like... ninety-seven years old? But you only look like you're thirty something.”

“They made me sleep. In the ice. Only woke me up when they needed me.”

Alright, that explains everything. And that's even more horrible.

I guess you have no family or friends left anymore. No one who’d be able to recognize you, take care of you. Except the one you mentioned, and from what I've understood he's not in shape to see you anymore. Is he dead? You're all alone on that hell of an earth, and you don't even have your memories to keep you company. That's so unfair.

“So this lasted for like, seventy years?”

You nod, your lower lip quivering. Looks like you're realizing it along with me. Seventy fucking years. It's nothing but torture and slavery. Depersonalization. They made you their tool or something. What the hell is wrong with this world? I know from experience how mean people can be, but this goes beyond everything I can imagine. It’s making me sick.

I don't know what to do, so I lean and give a soft kiss on your wet cheek, followed by another on your forehead, and I let my mouth rest there. Against all odds, you don't push me away. Instead you close your eyes and let out a trembling sigh.

“I'm not sure I can do anything to ease your situation, I say against your sweat-covered skin. But if there's anything you need... I'm here. Anytime.”

You get a little closer to me, bury your face against my neck. This is getting a little too intimate, isn’t it? But god, how good it feels.

“Thank you,” you say, and your lips brush my aching throat, sending shivers down my spine. Ah, shit, it's so awkward. _Please do it again_. That sweet, light touch is everything I ever wanted.

I stroke your back near the metal part of your shoulder. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore, pal; I’ve got you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble in a low voice.

“About what?”

“Thinking you were one of them.”

Oh. I didn’t know you actually thought I might have been an enemy. Can’t blame you though.

“Don’t worry about it. In fact, I’d have felt the same if I had been in your situation.”

“Now I trust you.”

A very strange feeling, like a flower blooming under the morning sun, rises in my chest.

“You should go back to sleep now. It will be daytime soon. You're gonna be tired.”

“I can’t. Not after—”

“Then I'll stay awake with you, right? Just close your eyes. Rest, we're safe for now. Try not to think about anything.”

And I'll try not to think too much about your warm body against mine.

Despite your worries, it's not long until your breath slows down and you fall asleep in my arms, exhausted by our conversation. I join you shortly after, lulled by that quiet pace.

 

——

 

_A basement at night, October 2014_

 

“Wake up. Wake up. Please.” I turn around, trying to go back to sleep and grunting a little, and you give me a very light tap on the shoulder that achieves to wake me up. You're leaning over me, worried.

“What?” I mumble, dizzy. I was having a nice dream of sun and wings spread under a warm wind, why are you waking me up?

You bite on your lower lip before telling me what’s been bothering you: “You were making noises. In your sleep. Like… bird noises—chirping.”

In my dream, I was a hawk. Oh shit, no. This wasn't supposed to happen. I let out a heavy sigh. You’re not the only one who’ve got some ugly secrets, man.

A whole month has passed since we met now. Most days have been spent in nearly complete silence. You don't say much and sometimes, it’s as if you don’t remember how to speak. It's hard to act like it's nothing serious, but you wouldn't want me to worry about it. I know I have some rather weird quirks as well. Such as that one.

“Can I trust you?” I ask cautiously.

I can barely see you in the dark but you tilt your head and your hair brushes my shoulder. I can feel your breath on my cheek. Since when have you been that close?

“What’s happening?” you ask very softly.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I owe you some explanations, I guess, before you find out yourself and start freaking out. This will be better for the both of us if we’re to stick together for a while,” I say as I get out of the warm blankets, reluctant; you have no idea how much I’ve been missing the comfort of someone else’s body heat at night. How could I even forget that? I open the toilets door to get in while adding: “This is gonna be scary and I’m sorry about that, but you’ll never believe me unless I show you.”

I make a face. If I intended to reassure you, it's a huge fail. You say nothing at all. As I remove all my clothes, I explain: “I can count on my fingers the number of people who actually know about this. Most of them think I'm a monster or something.” I have no idea why I trust you enough to reveal that part of myself, the most intimate one so far. Why the hell am I doing this?

It's terrifying. Exciting. I don't know anymore. And if things go bad, well… I can still escape. I would hate that though.

“Can you light a candle?”

Once we can see a little better, I take a deep breath and start focusing.

Shapeshifting is easy, way too easy. I’ve been doing that since forever. Even before I could walk and talk, I believe. The only thing I have to do is to think for a second about the shape I wanna take. Let's see... something that won't be too scary. How about a middle sized dog? A good old labrador retriever. Everyone love them.

And here I am. The world suddenly expands around me. As I fall on all four, my muzzle starts to absorb all the rich smells in the room, and my ears record the whole street's noises outside. Cars, people, rats fighting in a back alley. I can't talk anymore, so I come back to the main room and look at you deep in the eyes, hoping you’ll recognize me behind that shape.

“What the hell...” You whisper. You're frozen on the mattress, a mix of fear, defiance and alertness pinning you down on your ass.

A cat. I should have started with a fucking cat, a tiny, cute fur ball. As I take that shape, I get on the bed in a swift jump. You recoil, ready to fight at any moment—but how could a damn cat harm someone like you, really? So I slip under the blanket and turn back to my human, usual features. The cloth conveniently hides me but I'm feeling uncomfortable now. Exposed. And I’m already hungry as hell, as usual. It takes a lot of energy to switch shapes like that.

“Can you give me my clothes, they're in the toilets? It's kinda cold here.”

“Wha—Who are you?” You stutter, not moving an inch.

“I don't know,” I reply back—in all honesty.

“You’re with them?” You look quite angry now.

Betrayed.

All the things you’ve told me about yourself the other day, the way you trust me now; you must feel like I’ve deceived you the whole time. Fuck, what have I done? Good job, dumbass; that was just the worst decision of my entire life.

“I'm with no one, I swear,” I say, raising my hands in the air.

“You lie. They’ve got people like—like you.”

Goddamnit. Who exactly are those people after you?

“What? There’s no other like me. I swear. I've had these... abilities since I was born.” You’re listening, wary. “I can turn into any animal. Almost any. I just have to touch it once and its shape is mine forever, as far as I know.” You eyes widen a little more. “Don’t stare at me like that. I know I look like a freak, but it's more useful than it sounds, and harmless. And well, that's not all. I can change the shape of my human body, too. Not my face or anything, but I can be man, woman or whatever, whenever I want to. I could show you if you want.”

What the fuck, I’m not gonna do that. Here I am, rambling; confusing and distressing you even more. How can I explain the inexplicable?

“I guess this has to do with my DNA. I'm sorry, I wish you hadn't seen that but I figured it was the only way you'd believe me. You probably thought I was a regular guy, and now you've got to deal with the fact I'm a fucking monster. I’m so sorry. That was a stupid mistake.”

Your face softens and you lean forward. I find myself relaxing all of a sudden; at least you’re not gonna kill me out of the blue.

“That’s impossible,” you say, shaking your head.

“Man, two years ago this entire city was almost blown up by a bunch of crazy aliens. Believe me, I’m not the most impossible thing you’ll get to see in this damn world.”

“Aliens?”

“Yeah, it was all over the news at the time. A fucking mess. Good thing I was on the other side of the country. Where were you when it happened?”

“I don’t know. Not here.”

“How can you not know?”

I’m kinda glad I managed to change the subject.

“Can’t remember.” The fear is gone now, you’re going back to your usual blank, overly detached attitude.

Oh. Of course. You were probably frozen in a bunker or something.

“How much do you remember now?” I ask softly.

You shrug. “Just the bad things.”

I let my shoulders drop. You're about to fall apart, it seems. I stand up with the blanket around my shoulders and go get my clothes. When I come back a minute later, you’re huddled up against the wall, your face buried in your knees.

“Hey. You’re okay? Wanna talk about what happened again?”

“There's so much. So much—” Without preamble, something breaks in you and you tighten your arms around your legs, teary-eyed.

“Not now, then,” I say, slowly putting an arm around your shoulders. “That’s enough for tonight, huh? You'll tell me when you're ready. If you're ready.”

You nod and, to my surprise, you tilt your cheek against my chest. I sigh, drawing you a little closer. It feels damn good.

It didn’t went too bad, after all.

 

Just one month, and without realizing it, we were already clinging so much to each other. The shapeshifting freak and the amnesiac bionic guy. What a team we make, huh? Even at that point, I’m sure I would have done everything in order to make you feel better. In return, you stopped fearing me after a few explanations; you didn't even judge me or decide to run away.

That was definitely something I had almost never experienced before.

A few words I heard in a song once comes to my mind as I write these lines. You’d probably like it, so:

_"Can I come over, I need to rest_

_Lay down for a while, disconnect_

_The night was so long; the day even longer_

_Lay down for a while, recollect.”_

 

——

 

The next morning, we’re sitting on a bench in the middle of Prospect Park. Autumn is gorgeous, even in the middle of New-York. Too bad it won’t last long.

You wanted to see Brooklyn, because you think that might be where you spent your most of your life. Before. But nothing meaningful came back. It only triggers glimpses and faded sensations. I guess the place has changed too much in seventy years, to the point it’s beyond recognition. You look sad—I mean, more than usual—and you haven’t said anything since we left the nearest street. You’re looking at your feet, apathetic, while I throw some almonds at a starving squirrel that ventured near the bench.

“I was following you,” you say suddenly.

“What? When?”

“That day after the restaurant. I followed you,” you explain.

“So you lied to me when I found you in the basement?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

I knew that wasn’t a coincidence. “No problem, man. But… why? I was sure you had ran away.”

“I thought you were with them. That you had been sent to bring me back… I wanted to make sure you wouldn't capture me.”

“It was risky.”

“Yes. But…” You look away, confused. “So I waited near your place a whole night and most of the day after. I didn’t know what I’d find.”

“Well, just me. And a good scare.”

“That’s right. I hadn’t expected you to come back... so soon.”

“I’m glad you told me the truth,” I say, putting a hand on your shoulder. It’s a good proof I can trust you, right? “But why did you stay that night?”

The squirrel has its mouth full of almonds by now, and he leaves us as fast as he arrived. We watch him until he jumps on a maple tree. A few vibrant red leaves fall on the ground as he climbs up and disappears in the branches. I wish I could join him. I miss being that carefree.

“I don’t know,” you answer eventually. We find ourselves staring at each other’s eyes for an overly long time.

And that’s the moment I realize autumn is only the second more beautiful thing in the world, and a life as a squirrel not so enviable after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics near the end of the chapter are from the song [Triangle Walks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3VJvZ0hXwAk) by Fever Ray.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic depiction of a panic attack.

_A grocery store, Harlem, October 2014_

 

The cashier guy has been staring at us, a hand under his counter, since the moment we came in. Don't worry dude, we're not gonna steal anything or raid your goddamn grocery with a gun at your head. Ugh, people can be so annoying.

In any case, better be careful: I'm staying close to you, hiding your face as I can from his gaze as we walk down the aisle and grab some stuff. Cans, coffee, soap. Toilet paper. We’ll definitely need those.

“Hey,” I say in a hushed voice as we reach the office supplies shelf. “Why don't you get a notebook or two? It's cheap and you could write down anything you can remember.”

“Do you think it's a good idea?”

“Sure.”

Ten minutes later, we're out of the shop, two notebooks with a black cover in your hand, and you're looking at them like you don't know what to do with it. You'll figure out, I'm sure.

 

_——_

 

You've been writing for maybe two hours now. Your right wrist must be sore as fuck but you keep going, focused and totally unaware of your surroundings. You have so much to tell and a blank page is the best companion for that.

All our savings are spread on the floor before me while I count again and again, making plans, wondering how we can make it last longer. We decided it would be easier to share everything we both had. What is mine is yours, and vice versa. I like that. It’s new. We’ve got about four hundred dollars now. Not bad. But not enough yet. We'll have to buy a lot of things in order to survive the upcoming winter.

We haven't really talked about it, by the way. Every day, I put off that conversation to the next. I don't want to know what you'll say when it happens eventually. When I’ll have to leave.

“Can I ask you a question?” You say, breaking the long lasting silence.

I look up at you. You're frowning, holding your pen in the air.

“Anything,” I reply, curious.

“You _—_ How should I call you?”

“By my name?”

“No. Yes. I mean...” You take an inspiration, a flush creeping on your face. ”As a woman or a man?”

“Why not neither?”

“Is it possible?” You're puzzled. I smile at you. How easy it is to forget where you’re coming from; a entirely different period, with its own rules and expectations. I never thought you’d be so open about that, to be fair. I guess you can’t really remember how it was back then.

“Nowadays, it’s possible, yeah. And that's what I am. When I don't shift at all, I'm both, and neither _—_ more or less.”

Too much details. It only adds up to your growing confusion. You'd understand if I showed you, but... Hell no.

“Then, he or she?” You ask.

“ _They_. That's how we say it now. If that sounds funny, though, just use whatever suits you. It's not like I'm gonna read it anyway.”

“They will be fine.”

I put my hand on your knee. “Thank you, I appreciate. Why are you writing about me, by the way?”

“I don't want to forget,” you explain, looking down on the pages. “So I'm writing everything. Past and present. You're part of the present. I don’t wanna forget you.”

I swallow down, in a vain attempt to push away the annoying knot that just appeared in my throat. I never really thought about the fact I'm an active part of your life. Am I so important for you? No way.

My hand lingers on your knee as I go back to my counting. Thanks to you, it’s getting hard to focus on our money now.

 

_——_

 

I can count on my fingers the days you’ve been feeling okay during those first few weeks. Most times, I could handle it; but that afternoon, shortly after you got the notebooks, you really gave me a good scare.

We’re looking at a computer shop window and I’m struggling to explain you all the different devices displayed there—it’s easy to forget _when_ you come from, too—and you’re listening carefully until you freeze out of the blue, awestruck, slack-jawed. At first glance, I think you’ve seen something behind the display, but it’s your own face you’re staring at with wide eyes, reflected in the window in front of you.

“Hey. What’s going on?” I ask, tilting my head.

You start to breath fast and your gaze won’t leave the glass, as if you were hypnotized by your reflection. Face going pale, you put your gloved left hand on your mouth. People in the shop are giving us odd looks and I think I even see a guy raising his phone to take a picture or something. _What the fuck!?_

“Let’s go,” I say, pushing you before me. We turn at the next back alley, away from nosy eyes. Once I’m sure we’re all alone and nobody has spied on us, I whip around to face you; you’re leaning on a dirty brick wall, panting. Oh god, you’re looking so bad.

“You okay? Tell me, how do you feel?” I slide my hand under your chin to make you look at me. Your eyes refuse to focus on anything—they avoid me specifically.

“Don’t hurt,” you whimper eventually. “Please. Please.” And you repeat it in Russian. Shit. I’m gonna break down too if you keep doing that.

“What the hell, dude?” I stutter, taking a step back. “It’s me, Jules. I’m not gonna do anything to you!”

You blink a few times before looking at me like you’ve never seen me before. “Where—”

“Alright, I’m taking you back to our place. It’s only a mile away, hold on.”

You let me carry you for the rest of the trip back, my left arm around your shoulders. By the time we get to the basement stairs, you’re completely numb, almost passed out against me and I can hardly hold your full weight.

“What’s happening,” you manage to gasp, heavy breathing. “I can’t feel my feet—”

“It’s nothing, man. It’s a panic attack, it has happened before.” Have you forgotten all the other similar episodes you’ve had so far? “You’ll be fine, just wait—” I grab my keys with my free hand to unlock the door. I hope it’s only that; with you, we can never know for sure. But I keep my doubts for myself, and we limp into to the room. I try not to fall with you as you slump on the bed. “C’mon,” I grumble, standing up with difficulty—I think you’ve just killed my back. Once you’re settled, I put a few blankets on you. I’ve noticed the feeling of slight weight helps with grounding you, sometimes.

“Don’t leave. Please. Jules,” you beg, panting, and suddenly there’s a lump in my throat. You rarely pronounce my name, and the way it sounds in your hoarse voice…

I brush the back of your head with my palm. “I’m not leaving, I’m just gonna heat some water. Okay?”

You don’t answer. Maybe you’ll be better if you can get some time alone. Still, I can feel your eyes on me as I turn on the camping stove and open a bag of dried herbs. When I come back, you’ve stopped having trouble with breathing.

“Here. Drink that. It won’t do much but it’s better than nothing.”

I push the cup in your hands until you take it. You make a face, eyeing it with suspicion.

“It’s just dried flowers and sugar. Chamomile,” I explain, shrugging. “It has calming properties. Helps with anxiety and insomnia.”

Carefully, you take a small sip. “It’s sweet,” you say with a raspy voice.

“I put a fuckton of sugar in it. I’ve noticed you have a sweet tooth.” I give you a smile and sit down next to you with a second cup for myself. I’m gonna need it anyway.

The sun slips through the basement’s dormers; night will fall soon enough. I wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of my hand, making sure you’re not running a fever—it has happened before. You lean into the touch, eyes half-closed.

“Thank you,” you say after emptying you cup. The feeling of a hot, sweet drink has been good enough to make you feel a little better already, it seems.

“You’re welcome, pal.”

I’d do anything to make you stay focused in the present. To dispel all those nasty ghosts and ground you here, with me. But I can’t do much, and it’s killing me. I know I’ll never save you from the raging sea of your memories. That’s not how it works. But still.

“What happened? Can you tell me?” I ask gently, and I add: “You don’t have to, though.”

Shaking your head, you contemplate the bottom of your cup. “I dunno.” Your lips curve in a queasy pout. But you look like you definitely know what triggered you, and in fact I’m pretty sure you’re reluctant to tell me the whole thing. According to what I’ve seen, it was as if you didn’t recognize yourself in the glass. Maybe you don’t want to admit it and I must say, it’s actually kinda concerning. What if your brain couldn’t repair itself after what was done to you? What if it was bound to worsen over time?

“It’s okay,” I mumble, brushing away the nasty thoughts. “It will be better tomorrow.”

It seems to comfort you and you slowly close your lids, letting your cheek rest on my shoulder.

The dark circles under your eyes have widened. You've been sleepless these past few days, spending whole nights writing down god knows what. At that pace, you're gonna finish your two notebooks by the end of the week. I've told you you didn't have to come outside with me if you wanted to grab some rest but you insisted on following me anyway. I don't know what you're afraid of exactly, though I suspect being all alone must have something to do with it. And to be fair, I'm not gonna complain. Being in your company all the time is, somehow—despite your recurring episodes and your inability to speak more than a few words a day—very securing, in a way I had never felt before. I'm doing fine on my own, of course, but _that_ , it's very new—and it feels damn good.

 

——

 

One evening, we come back at the basement and something is different in the air. As we walk down the stairs, you grab my arm without notice and pull me closer, almost pinning me between you and the corridor wall.

“Wait _—_ ” you whisper in my ear. The stubble of your chin is brushing my jaw. I try to contain the thrill it sends down my back.

“What?” You squeeze my arm and put a finger on your lips. You look tense, overly concerned. Oh. Quiet—understood. I wait and listen.

Heavy footsteps all around the building. They're not even trying to hide themselves. There's at least five of them. Probably many more.

Holy shit. They’ve found us. Sticking around for so long was the worst idea I ever had. “We have to leave now,” I say, whispering. “Pick up our stuff and get the hell out of here.”

We run silently to our door and get inside the room. I point at the locked door near the toilets. “There's another exit right behind. That's our only way now.”

“Where does it lead?”

“Underground garage, on the other side of the building.”

“Let's block the main door,” you say, already pulling the steel shelf against the entrance. It's not gonna stop them for long.

Blood is pounding in my ears. There's no time. I fill my travel bag with our most useful gear only. Money, food, clothes, blankets. A few tools. It will come in handy if we end up in the middle of nowhere, provided we survive tonight. No room for the camping stove though, that’s too bad. You only own a small backpack; you stuff it until it's about to implode, get a knife out of one of the side pockets and rush to the backdoor. They're already trying to burst into the room.

“Shit! The keys!” I say, rummaging in my empty pockets. I can’t find the damn padlock keys. They must be in the room somewhere, but I can’t see them in the dark.

“No time for that.” I hear a whirring sound from your arm, and I join to help you as you break the lock and begin to force open the heavy door _—_ fuck, it’s probably rusted from disuse. We push and push as much as we can and it suddenly gives way.

Quick. Run. Don't look back. I can hear their voices, they're in the room now. Flashlights rays at the other end of the hallway. _Oh no._ They figured it out before us.

“They're here too!” I shout. Too late. Two heavily armed guys appear, face masked. They’re blocking the way out. They raise their guns and pull the trigger.

Moving faster than it should be possible, you're already on them, kicking one right in the belly with your left fist; his back meets the concrete wall of the garage while you stab the other in the throat. He makes an awful sound as you push him away.

Unable to believe my own eyes, I look at you, amazed. You’re so strong and fast, I’ve never seen that before.

But there's no time to be in awe. A third one is here, aiming at your back. Without thinking, I jump on him to knock him off, and I grab his head and smash it on the hard ground until he stops struggling. Dead or unconscious, I don't care. I'm not gonna check.

You catch me by my coat's hood and put me back on my feet, quickly making sure I'm alright. I follow you, even though I’m about to puke and my ears are ringing. I didn’t notice one of the guys managed to shoot a couple of bullets before you took care of him. Thanks god they missed us.

“Let's go,” I say, and we keep rushing. The exit is just a few feet away now. I can hear them running and shouting foreign words behind us _—_ is it Russian?

We take a look around once we’re outside. It's oddly quiet. A trap? If only I could shift right now, I'd be able to spot at least a few of those fuckers. But I’m being useless.

No time to waste. I lead you to the closest back alley. Luckily, I know all the shortcuts of that neighborhood, so we run and run and run, and your hand maintains its grip on my coat, firm.

Suddenly you give me a good push, forcing me to bent down with you, a split second before a whole patch of wall implodes right over us. We turn at the corner and hide behind a bunch of dumpsters. I'm panting and god, I'm so fucking scared.

“Come on,” you urge, “Let’s keep going!”

“Just go! I'm slowing you down. We gotta split, I'll find a way to escape.”

“No!” You insist. “I'm not leaving without you.”

“But _—_ “

“We're sticking together, okay?”

Something has changed in you in a matter of minutes. You’ve stopped being the fragile ball of fear and torment I’ve taken care of the past few weeks. You’re no longer submissive, as much as I hate that word. Something new is rising inside you: a kind of determination that comes from a very strong-willed mind. It was hidden deep under until that night.

You’re the one in charge now. This is your field, not mine. There are fucking snipers shooting at us from the roofs above and I'm just a street dog; this isn't for me. I'm not a fighter. This is too much, I can’t handle it.

“Let's leave now,” you tell me, and I decide to trust you with all my guts.

 

 

Two hours later, they’ve lost our tracks, or so it seems. You're pretty good at blending in the landscape. I guess decades of working undercover _—_ if I may say _—_ makes you kind of an expert. I can help you by pointing out the side paths and the streets that usually have a lot of pedestrians, even at night. “People are the best way to hide in plain sight,” you teach me. To be fair, it’s only making me uncomfortable.

We walk fast, huddled together, trying not to look suspicious. I’ve taken my woman shape to pretend we’re some regular couple _—_ I definitely look like a dude with my clothes and my hair, though _—_ and with our caps jammed on our heads, we won’t draw too much attention if we’re lucky.

“We can’t stay in New York. I have a safe place but it's pretty far away. It's in the woods, in the mountains. No one goes there, and it's so big they'll never find us. If you want to, we can go together. I'll hide you.” I'm just dropping the idea. You'll probably say no anyway. I understand: the wild life doesn't suits everyone.

“Are you sure it's safe?” You ask to my surprise.

“Yes. I know this place more than everyone else. I’ve been hiding there from time to time. But it's not gonna be easy, I warn you. It will be outdoor life. Survival.”

“Can't be worse than now.”

I agree. I'm not gonna miss New York anyway. The more I stay, the more cities makes me nauseous.

“Then we have to get out of here,” I say. “If we can hop onto a freight car—” You blink and make a face, but keep your mouth shut. Did I say something wrong? “I can lead us to the closest station. Then we wait for the first train that leaves in the morning, before the sunrise. We shouldn't have to wait for too long, don't worry.”

“But first we must reach it.”

“Yeah. Let's go.”

 

——

 

It's three in the morning and time seems to be frozen in place at the train station. Perfect setting for a horror movie, don’t you think? We're hiding between a bunch of crates stacked under an open storage warehouse. There’s no one in sight except a few rats and an owl somewhere in the distance. The first train should arrive soon enough. If we’re lucky.

“It's been far too easy,” you say, your mouth hidden behind your scarf. “It doesn’t look like them.”

“Maybe they wanna be careful. Are they afraid of you?”

“Yeah they are...” You shiver, and it's not due to the cold.

Maybe they followed us and they’re waiting until they can catch us like two helpless rabbits. It’s probably a sick game for these guys. I keep that thought to myself: no need to worsen your worry.

“They had to restrain me all the time. I hurt a lot of them, a lot of times.”

“They earned it, those bastards.” I cradle your neck in my palm and stroke your hair for a while. It doesn't appease you but you stop fidgeting with your sleeve before it gets shred into pieces. Your gaze is stuck on the open area before us. A dozen of railroads, no sign of life... The warehouse wall is behind us, so they won't surprise us by that way. The place is quiet, yet we watch, we watch, and I’m slowly dozing off.

“I have some coffee left from this morning,” I say, forcing me to stay alert. “Want some?”

“Please.”

Finding my thermos flask isn't easy in my backpack's mess. I give you the bottle first and let you enjoy a few sips of hot, strong coffee. We share the rest in complete silence.

“Thank you. For saving my life earlier,” I say. “That bullet wasn't joking.” It seems to be small words for such a thing. I don't know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.

“I wasn’t letting you get murdered,” you reply.

“You didn't have to. You could have fled. Many would have.”

“Would you?”

“No, of course. I'm not like that.”

You throw me a look that says, _me neither_ , and you hand me the bottle after drinking one last time. “Empty.” Too bad. I could drink a hundred cups right now.

“Hey, you have some left, there, at the corner of your mouth.” I let out a tiny laugh as you try to wipe it and miss it by a few inches “Here, let me help.” Gently, I remove it with my thumb before licking it. I’m certainly not gonna waste a single drop, right?

Right after that your gaze meets mine and you get a strange expression. I raise an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” You glance down; a strand of hair falls from your shoulder and tickles my neck. You put your hand behind my head and start brushing the nape of my neck with your fingertips, in a slow gesture that makes me catch my breath for a moment. You’ve stopped peering at the train station. I just hope I'm not distracting you.

Because you’re definitely distracting me.

“Your hair is getting long,” you mutter.

“I know... It’s annoying. I like it short. Probably gonna have to cut it soon.”

“You do it yourself? That’s why it's a mess?”

“C’mon, it’s not a mess! You asshole,” I laugh a little too loud and I put my hand on my mouth.

Even though we're probably about to die in the next few hours, I can only think about how much I love what you're doing right now. Teasing me and stuff, without dropping that deadpan expression. You never smile, but sometimes, tiny glimpses of humor slip through your words. You lean to give me a soft kiss on the temple. Your breath has a delicious smell of coffee.

It started like that. Slight touches, clumsy fingers in the hair, kisses so delicate I could barely feel them. You were unsure at first, shy and hesitant, and I can't blame you. Survivors like you are not comfortable with touching other people, usually. You're an odd exception. I guess seventy fucking years without any sign of intimacy with another makes you... hungry. There's no other way to describe your behavior; because soon after, you became more demanding, touching me every time you could, looking for any pretext to brush my skin with your warm, delicate, gorgeously shaped lips. Making me feel crazy, in a completely platonic way, for sure. I'm not an idiot, I can see that you long for this and if it makes you feel better, then I’ll let you do this as often as you want. It’s doing wonders on me, too.

Let’s not be mistaken: no such thing as romance or sex drive were involved in what I was certain to feel during these first weeks.

But my body gets all kinds of reactions, especially after so many time alone. Like when we’re half asleep and you’re dozing off behind me while mumbling indistinct words, and I can feel your mouth and the ghost of your tongue on the curve of my neck. It has happened several times already and let me tell you, it’s always an exquisite, addictive moment I’m yearning for a little more every evening.

I'm considering that maybe you were already trying to tell me something at the time, without even knowing it yourself. That's a foolish thought: why would you have wanted anything else than some comfort and a person to make you feel safe after the fucking hell you had just escaped?

I wish I knew, really. And the more time passes, the more doubt invades my mind, unsettling and overwhelming.

 

 

“Look. A train. Is that it?” Your hushed voice wakes me up. I didn't realize I was half sleeping on your shoulder. A long bandwagon is slowly making its way out of a huge hangar. In the distance, the night sky is turning to red.

“Yeah. That's it. Come on, let's go before someone notices us.”

We jump on our numb feet, grab our bags and run to the closest wagon, slightly crouched down. Let's hope there's no guards. You leap on the side of the wagon as it slowly speeds up, slide open the heavy door to get inside. Please be quick, the train is going faster, and I can't run forever. To my relief, you come back, waving your hand towards you. I throw my backpack; you catch it in mid-air and put it in the wagon, and then you take my wrist in your left hand, pulling me up without any effort. Finally, we close the sliding door from the inside, leaving a small opening just in case.

“We made it,” I sigh in relief, looking all around. The wagon is empty. According to my previous experiences, it should stop in a few hours to get filled in a smaller city near the Appalachian mountains. The trains I took from this station always led me there before. That's when we should leave it, then we’ll walk until we reach my good old forest. My mountains.

“Let's take some rest while we can now”, I say, and I sit down against the wagon wall.

Sleep doesn't come easy, after all. The train's loud pace is being deeply unnerving. When I finally fall asleep, it's not long before you wake us up with a jolt, a muffled scream coming out of your mouth.

“What happened?” I ask, worried.

“I just remembered—something.” You sit up, get your notebook from your bag and start scribbling fast, brow furrowed. The sun’s starting to rise now.

“Something good?”

“Not really.”

I should've guessed. Nice souvenirs never come back to you, as I figured. Do you even have any?

You seem to be okay, though, so I lie back and press my side against your hip. “I'm right here if you need me, mate,” I mumble, already falling back asleep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic depiction of a panic attack.

_Morgantown, West Virginia, October 2014_

 

The freight train makes a stop a few moments after noon. We take a look by the small opening we’ve left, making sure no one is coming to inspect it.

“I see two guys far on our left, close to the train station,” I say. “What do we do?”

“Let’s get out of here. There's no time.”

Hurrying up, we get off the wagon and we run until we jump through the hedges surrounding the railroads. Once we’ve reached a quieter road and we're sure we're out of sight, we can slow down a little, relieved. I don't like hiding in daylight, no need to look even more suspicious.

“We should make a detour at the town nearby. We'll need a lot of stuff in order to survive the upcoming weeks. And we gotta eat something.” I feel like there’s a black hole in my stomach.

“Do we have enough money?”

“I hope so. We'll see.” We could stay for a few days and find a way to make more money but… I don’t want to stick around here. It’s a small town and from my experience, people have an annoying tendency to remember new faces.

 

We decide to have a quick lunch at a small, cheap diner, near the east side of the town. Since we haven't eaten anything in a good while, we both order an insane amount of food—we'll pack the leftovers for later. Pancakes, fries, burgers for you. Comfort food, mostly, and it’s doing its job. I haven’t seen you eat with such enthusiasm in weeks. You look like a mess, even though the dim sunlight slipping through the curtains makes you even more beautiful. And I’m certainly not better. Despite my exhaustion, I’m feeling... restless. Every time someone enters the diner, I’m sure it’s the end of us.

When the waitress comes back with the desserts we ordered, I ask her if there's any good shop in town.

“You could stop by the grocery at the end of the street, but the owner is an asshole, and his prices are high as balls,” she says, making a face. “There's the thrift shop, too, they got all kind of stuff. What are you doing here, by the way? This town’s a hole.”

“We're traveling. Wanna see nice stuff on this side of the coast before we go back to the west.”

“Guys, you chose the most boring place on earth to stop by. Try the hiking trail if you're feeling adventurous. Other than that, I dunno.” She shrugs.

“Why not?” I say, beaming at her. “We love hiking. That would be perfect. Thanks for the tip.”

She goes back behind the counter. She's young—way too young to spend her whole life down here working in a shitty diner. But that’s none of my business.

We eat in silence and you seem to get better with each bite. It's good to see you doing mundane stuff like that, without being constantly haunted. I look by the window, thoughtful. I only wish you could have a normal life—one day, maybe, once all that mess is over? But that's very unlikely, I suppose. Fate is a bitch and it’s never willing to give some well-deserved rest to people like you.

When we're done, the waitress—Ashley, according to the name tag on her blouse—comes back one last time and I leave her the largest tip we can afford. I notice she's staring a little too much at you.

“Hey, do I know you? You remind me of someone I’ve seen somewhere,” she asks you suddenly.

You blink, unable to conceal a burst of distress. She doesn’t seem to notice the way your face tenses up, though.

“I don't think so,” you reply slowly. “It's the first time I'm coming here.”

“It's weird, though... Are you famous or something? TV show, maybe?”

“I have a pretty common face, that's all. Thanks for the meal.” You stand up, begging me with a quick glare. Message received. Once we're outside, you start walking faster.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, worried.

“She recognized me. Let's get away before she remembers where she saw me.”

“How’s that possible?” I wonder. What the hell are you talking about, dude? “You’re not actually famous, are you?”

“Doesn't matter. I just wanna leave.”

 

“So, let's recap.” I lean over our supplies, that we spread out in the grass. “We've got enough food for at least one month. Rice. Lentils. Wheat. Dried herbs and fruits. Protein bars. Purification tabs. We'll have to find fresh stuff ourselves, but that won't be a problem.”

Hidden behind a bunch of trees in the town's park, we count and count again. Night will catch us soon enough so we better hurry up.

“Now, that bunch of winter clothing we got from the thrift shop will come in handy. At least you have good shoes and an actual coat now, right? And that hiking bag, you’ll love it, let me tell you.”

“You think there will be enough room for all that stuff?”

“These things are almost magical when it comes to carrying things. So we've got two canteens, lighters, rope, knives, a small axe, razors for you, a cooking pot and all that shit. Also, towels and soap. We'll need to stay clean, believe me. If you're okay with it, we're gonna split all of it in half so we can take equal weight.”

“I can take some more,” you suggest. “You've got a lot already.”

I smile, shaking my head. “Don't worry man, I'm stronger than I look. All those years spent carrying things around gave me a good back.”

“Okay then. Just tell me if that's too much.”

I nod and start filling the backpacks with you.

“What's in that?” You ask, handing me a small cloth bag.

“Oh, that? That's just some yarn and needles. I like to keep my fingers busy when there's nothing to do. Grandma stuff,” I laugh, taking it and storing it with the rest. “Well, I think we're ready.” I pray that it will be enough. That I haven’t forgotten anything important. We’ll be out in the wild for a long time.

The trail path starts at the end of the park. According to the map I got at the grocery, woods are covering this area for miles and miles, and we should be able to avoid big towns. If we go to the east for a while, then to the south, we'll find the place I told you about. Finally. I take a deep breath and make a step towards the tree line.

“Ready?” I ask.

You're standing next to me. “Let's go.”

 

——

 

Walking in the woods at a steady pace, my feet welcomed by a carpet of needles, moss and dead leaves, feels like coming home at last. And that fresh air, it’s a pure delight. It's a quite wild area, and there's so much to explore here. I can't wait to shapeshift and wander around for a good while, but I have to stick with you for now.

We keep moving forward on the trail. You let me lead the way earlier, saying I was the wilderness expert, and it's been two hours without hearing your voice.

“Do you think they followed us?” I ask, trying to break the silence.

“Can't tell,” you reply. You're obviously struggling to hold the fact you're worried as fuck.

After another hour, we reach a small clearing.

“Let's take a break,” I say. “Then we'll try to find a good spot for tonight.”

“Are we far enough from the town?”

“I dunno... I'm gonna fly over the trees and I'll tell you. Don't worry, I won't be far. Just call me if there's anything. I’ll hear you.” I drop my bag on the ground to take my clothes off. You turn around, and I appreciate how you care to respect my privacy. It’s only the second time I do that while you’re around, yet you quickly got the hint. If only I could shift with my clothes on, oh, that would be so easier. For both of us.

A hawk—a few wingbeats lead me over the forest. So good. So intense. The wind on my feathers feels like being born again. I can’t describe how much I’ve missed it. The sun is setting now, and the town we left earlier is just a shining dot in the distance. It should be alright here: there's a small river not far from the clearing we stopped by. What a nice spot.

A faint move on my left, in the middle of a small meadow—I dive. The last thing that poor rabbit sees before it dies is a bunch of hungry talons. Sorry buddy, but we’re gonna need that meat.

You're waiting, patient, sitting on a boulder covered with moss. I drop the rabbit's body at your feet before landing right behind you, where you put our bags and my clothing; you jump, startled. “Jules?”

I shift back. “Sorry for the scare. Food for tonight,” I announce, shuddering. It’s getting cold here. Once I'm dressed up and feeling warm again, I hang the rabbit to my bag, and we go back to the path, gathering dried wood as we walk. After maybe half an hour, it leads us to the river I saw from above. We can camp here for the night. It's about time, since we can barely see anything now. We stop on a flat area overlooking the rushing waters. There's still a lot of things to do, so we better hurry.

 

Right after we were done eating, I shapeshifted again and went exploring around for a while. To be fair, the look on your face when I turned into a bobcat was absolutely priceless. I know, man, it's not something people can get used to. However, becoming an animal doesn't mean becoming an entirely wild, uncontrollable beast, and I showed you I wasn’t a threat by purring and rolling on my back, playful, at your feet. I even rubbed my head against your thigh and let you scratch my ears before disappearing in the dark, changing shapes as many times as I could before feeling tired. I didn't find anything worth mentioning but I was able to map the area—from an owl's point of view, which isn’t bad at all.

Now we lie under our warm sleeping bags. At first, we took one each, but after I saw you shivering and tossing for some time, I suggested we zip the two bags together to make a bigger one and we were able to huddle together at last—to keep warmth, of course.

“We’re gonna have to sleep practically on each other, if that doesn't bother you,” I say, hesitating before slipping in the bag next to you.

“No problem.”

Yeah, that's not like we were already doing that before, right?

You're lying on your back; my head is resting on your torso. It's firm and comfortable at the same time, vibrating smoothly when your voice echoes in your ribcage—like a soft purr. You smell like sweat, fire smoke and earth. It grounds me back into my human mind after all the shapes I've taken tonight. Running around on four limbs, flying and smelling and listening, all senses enhanced, it's a little bit overwhelming.

Our hands—flesh and steel—are clasped together. I play with your fingers just to see the delicate plates shifting and flickering under the campfire's light. You're observing me, a pensive look on your face.

“Can you feel it?” I ask, stroking your thumb with mine.

“A little,” you reply, head tilted. “Like a tickle.”

On a whim, I decide to put a little kiss on each fingertip. I hope you can feel this too.

“It must be weird. The way it feels.”

“I'm used to it. You shouldn't do that, you know... It did so much wrong.”

But that hand is part of you and I think I like it as much as the rest of you. I hold the fingers against my mouth, allowing the metal to steal my body heat—they get warmer real quick. And god knows you deserve warmth; more than I could ever give.

With a sigh, you remove your hand from my hold to hide it under the covers.

“Don't blame yourself. You’re a gentle guy, you wouldn’t even hurt a fly. It wasn't you. They forced you. They used you like a damn tool, they're the one who did wrong things, not you,” I say, squeezing your right hand. Your mouth twitches and you don't answer, eyes locked on the night sky. There are so many stars tonight; how long has it been since the last time you watched them?

“You can't understand.”

It breaks my heart but you're right: “I know. All I can do is to be here, whatever that means for you. Whatever you need from me, I’ll give it to you if I can.”

You take a deep breath. “Why are you doing all this?”

“I told you before, I... like you. A lot, actually.”

“I don't deserve it.”

“Of course you do. You're a good friend and one of the kindest person I’ve met so far,” I say, suddenly unable to look you in the eyes. “The only one who didn't leave when I showed the kind of freak I was.”

Your embrace becomes tighter. _Yes_ , _don't release me, please._

“How could I?” Your voice is a mere whisper.

“I don't know,” I reply, shrugging. “You looked pretty terrified that time.”

“But I didn't want to leave either. I thought you'd be the first one to go.”

“Why?”

“You—” You take a moment to find your words, fidgeting. “You already had your own life. I broke into it.”

“You call that a life? Living in a hole? No family, no friends? I’m a goddamn hobo, man.”

“Better than having nothing at all.”

I nod, looking down. I can't complain. Some are living through worse situations than I am.

“How long have you been living this way?” You ask.

“Since I was like... seventeen. I'm almost twenty-nine now. So, twelve years. More or less.” I never bothered to count the years.

“A long time.”

“Yeah.”

We fall silent for a while, thoughtful. What have I done since I left? I crossed the whole country a few times, north to south, east to west, made a few encounters along the way; nothing that lasted, though. Even though I love meeting new people, I was always a loner at heart. I’m doing better on my own, relying on myself only, and I don’t expect anything from other people.

“Here, in the wild, this is my home. The only place that feels right. No crowds, no constant background noise. No senseless violence. I missed it, you know.”

There's another place where I can feel that good now—except I'm not gonna mention it to you.

“So... You were planning to come back here as soon as possible?”

“As soon as I had enough money and goods and before the winter, yes. I never dwell in cities too long. Makes me sick.”

“You never told me.” Is it me or you sound hurt?

“I—To be honest, I was afraid of how you’d react.”

“Why so?” Your left hand comes back on mine—I’m not gonna lie, I missed it.

“I thought you'd rather stay in New York than come with me.” The words drop before I can contain them. _Shit_. A silence. You turn on your side to face me.

“But I came anyway,” you say, dead serious.

“Yeah, but we were chased down. Not like you had any other choice. Is it what you want, though?”

“Yes.”

Can you even imagine my relief as we speak? I can hardly believe it. You must be mocking me or something. If not, it will be the first time I ever spend my wild time with someone else.

“But this life doesn't suit everyone. It's harsh,” I tell you. “It's exhausting. We'll have to hunt for food, sleep right under the stars, and suffer the rain, the cold and the storms. It's not an easy path.”

“I've seen worse.” Sure you have. I wouldn’t deny it. It will be huge happy time compared to what you went through, I guess. But will you enjoy that life as much as I do?

“And I'm not alone, I'm with you,” you add.

Oh. That was unexpected. I swear, in that moment, I'm on the verge of kissing that pretty mouth of yours. I wanna taste you with all my senses, hold you and never let you go ever again. In a platonic way, of course. Instead, I run my mouth along your cheek—which is covered in beard now— because it’s something you enjoy a lot, according to my growing experience of your likings. I go down along the line of your jaw to end up on your chin. Lips slightly parted, you let out a low hum.

“Freckles,” you mumble, touching my cheekbone with the tip of your left forefinger.

“What?” I ask, puzzled. I lift my head, leaving your jaw with some reluctance. I can feel your breath on my face. Damn, we're so close it's killing me. _In a platonic way._ Right?

“You have freckles. Didn't notice that before.” Our lips are almost brushing each other's as we speak. Dude, that’s fucking _insane_. You don't seem to mind though, or you're hiding it better than I can. Or maybe your past has made you unaware of all the tacit rules about how friends ain’t supposed to be so close to each other. Not that I'm gonna complain. But...

“Half of my family members are redheads, so—” I shrug.

“Oh. And the other half?”

“I'd rather not mention it. They’re gone.” I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortable. I don't wanna venture into that topic. If you knew about it, you’d leave me for sure. So my answer is only a small, selfish lie to keep you with me, and I’m sure it will do no harm.

“Okay,” you say, and you lean a little more, putting a small kiss on my cheek, way too close to the corner of my mouth. Oh man. You certainly know how to distract me from bad thoughts. Can I say the same, though? It’s unlikely.

But that night, your sleep is way more serene than usual.

 

In the morning, we eat what's left of the rabbit with some dried fruits. You’ve been staring at me, frowning as I was literally devouring my food.

“I thought you didn't like meat?”

“Only the one I don't kill myself. I like to know what goes in my meals.”

“I see.”

“And I can't bear the way animals are dealt with nowadays.” I shake my head. “At least when I hunt, I give them a quick, painless death. I mean—I’ve been that rabbit. It's easier when you know what it's like to be the prey you’re gonna kill.”

You nod slowly, thoughtful, trying to grasp what I'm saying. It’s hard to explain with words only.

“So it's not so different from back then, the way farm animals are raised and killed,” you say, eyes lost on the river nearby.

“I guess it's even worse now.” I gather the bones together and bury them under the campfire's ashes. “Let's grab our things and go back to the path. Daytime won't last long.”

 

_——_

 

_A mountain riverside, Virginia, November 2014_

 

As a barn owl, I land on your left arm and you take the two dead squirrels from my beak, before I fly off again. We’re gonna need a couple more to be fully satiated. It has become an habit now; I bring back my preys to you like a cat to its owner.

Once it’s done and after shifting back behind a tree, I sit down by your side in front of the firecamp, brushing off the animal sensory inputs from my mind. The squirrels are already skinned and roasting. I’m exhausted and hungry as hell. I need to eat a lot to compensate the energy loss that happens each time I shift.

Throwing a log in the fire, you scratch your beard with an annoyed groan.

“You alright?” I ask, yawning.

“Itching,” you grumble, making a face. We've been walking for two weeks straight before reaching that part of the mountains that is home to me; you didn't really have time for taking care of yourself. You look like a freakin’ lumberjack now.

“Maybe you should shave, don't you think? I'm sure we could even find some fleas in that thing.”

You look absolutely horrified, it's hilarious. I feel a little bad about teasing you like that but seriously, it's priceless.

“Just kidding. I know what it’s like, mate.” I’m starting to have some stubble as well. Fortunately, it doesn’t grow as fast as yours. And if I want to get rid of it, I just have to turn into a woman for a few days, it will fall off on its own to be replaced by thinner, almost invisible hair. “We'll go at the river tomorrow morning so you can shave.”

 

The water—it's ice more than water at this point, is crystal clear in the morning sun. Frozen to the bones, I scrub my skin with my nails while you're washing yourself twenty feet away. I try not to glare at your back; believe me, it’s hard. I can't help but notice the network of reddish scars on your left shoulder blade. Shit, that must be so painful. I've seen it before but it's different in broad daylight.

Once we're all clean, dry and dressed—it’s a miracle I managed to keep my eyes away from you while you were wiping yourself with your towel—, we sit on an huge pebble near the water. I dry your soaked hair with another towel before combing it with my fingers. Meanwhile, you're trying to look at yourself in the pocket mirror I gave you, a razor in your right hand, your beard covered with soap.

“I'm gonna cut myself,” you complain. “Look, I'm shaking.”

“You want me to do it?”

“Yeah… If you're okay with it.”

Letting go of your hair, I sit down in front of you and I take the razor from your hand. You look distressed since you went out of the water but I didn't point it out, because I’m sure it would’ve made things worse. Careful, I start shaving the upper part of your jaw. I never did it on someone else so it’s kinda scary. Cutting your soft skin isn't an option. Everything goes right until I gently grab your chin to go down on your neck.

Suddenly you're choking, it seems. I back away and drop the razor far from your throat. “You okay? Hey, you okay?” I take your hand. It's shaking mad.

“Can't breathe,” you stutter.

“Need to be alone?” Sometimes you need it, sometimes it's the contrary. I've learned it's better to ask you first.

“No. Not alone. Please.” You can't talk much, but your wide-open eyes tell me enough.

It’s like the other time, in the street. I don’t enjoy writing about your panic attacks, because I feel like I’d be disclosing private stuff. You'll get dizzy for entire days, barely able to walk and speak, and we'll have to stop our journey until you're fully rested. Several times, back at New York, you also ended up puking in the toilets for an incredible amount of time after some memories went back in your sleep. It’s horrible to witness; I feel so helpless each time. The only thing I could do was holding your hair and comforting you until the crisis faded away.

I hope today isn't as bad as those times. At least, I know how to deal with it now.

“C’mon. Breathe. Slowly. Yeah, that’s it. It's gonna be okay.” You close your eyes and pull me closer to you. Tight touch. I get it, that's what you need right now. I slide my arms and my legs around your waist and rub my hands on your back, whispering soothing words in your ear. You're not alone, I'm here. I'm here. I take slow, deep inspirations, hoping you'll follow the rhythm eventually.

Hang on, my friend. We’ll make it better together.

 

You run your palm on your cheeks, relieved. It's all smooth and neat now. By the way, you look... different. Younger. I often forget we're about the same age; your eyes are so old. Ancient.

“Thanks. Sorry for freaking out,” you apologize, glancing down.

“No worries. And you'd have done the same for me.”

“You’d trust me to do that? A blade on your skin?”

Man, I'd trust you in any kind of situation now. I nod and give you a kiss on the temple.

“What happened, it was because of the razor?”

“No, it's—that water, so cold—brought some memories back. When they put me to sleep.”

“I'm so sorry. It was a bad idea. Next time, we'll heat up some water in the pot rather than diving in the river like that, it'll be better for you.”

“No, it's alright... I shouldn't be reacting that way. Dammit.”

“Please, don't blame it on yourself. You know what? Let's take the day off. We won't walk today. Instead, I'll brew some sweet tea for you and cuddle you until you can't bear me anymore. Deal?”

You have a muffled chuckle. “Deal.”

I take your hand in mine and lead you back to the camp. Maybe it's gonna be a good day, after all.

 

_——_

 

We’ve walked a long time today; maybe twenty miles. It's getting colder every day and it won't be long until the whole state is covered with snow. At least it doesn't rain anymore now.

We’ve found a small cave that'll make a very nice shelter tonight. I'm sitting against a stone block that fell from the ceiling a long time ago. Legs spread, I’m trying to ignore an annoying stiffness in my thighs. You're lying down on your side, curled under the sleeping bag, your head on my lap. As I rub your aching shoulders—you told me your left arm’s weight is killing your back most of the time—, your gaze is stuck on the campfire.

“I don't want to sleep,” you say, breaking the silence. You've been awfully quiet for most of the day. It's so good to hear your voice again.

“What's wrong?”

“Stuff. You know. Coming back at me. I can't control it—headache,” you mutter. You let out a trembling sigh. My fingers are now tangled in your hair, running up and down your scalp with light pressure. You don't say anything for a long time, to the point I think you've sunk back into the depths of your mind.

Eventually, you take a deep breath: “My name, it was... it’s—” you stutter, ”it's Bucky.”

I find myself at a loss for words. _Holy shit_. You've just dropped it, your name, your fucking _name_ , like it's nothing. Just a small, single word. But it's something, it's so much, for both of us. We don't realize it yet, but that moment will mean a damn lot to us in the future.

Tears are watering at the corners of your eyes and when I notice that, mine starts stinging too. My heart races to the point I’m convinced it’s gonna implode; can you hear it? You certainly can.

“Thanks for telling me,” I manage to say. It's been almost three months now and I didn't even know your name. Can you imagine spending all your time with someone without knowing how they’re called? Now I do, all of a sudden. What do I do with that information? “Did you just remember it?”

“No, I—” You turn around to lie on your back and look up at me. The intensity of your gaze makes me all weak in the knees. “I figured I should tell you. I wanted to do it for a long time but I couldn’t. That's how my... friends and family used to call me.”

I repeat it to myself, just to see how it rolls on my tongue. _Bucky_. I love it. That’s not your birth name, I think—who would call his son _Bucky_? But it’s yours and yours only, and I'm glad you told me. It means you trust me a little more, right? And more important, you're finding yourself again, slowly, day after day. It’s a good thing. A step forward.

First, reclaiming your name, then what? It's gonna be a long and tough process. But you'll make it. I know you will.

Losing myself in the ocean of your eyes, I feel like it's my turn to tell you my own truth.

“Bucky?” I say, a knot in my stomach. It feels weird to pronounce it, you know.

“…Yes?” you reply, hesitant, not used to it yet.

“I love you, my friend. You have a very good heart.”

For the very first time, you smile. It’s weak, uncertain, yet so authentic. Exquisite. It makes me feel like nothing can harm us anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic depiction of violence at the end of the chapter.

_A hiking trail, Virginia, December 2014_

  


Down a foggy vale, we walk through a meadow or two, following deers tracks. It’s a big herd and they’ve left a very convenient pathway in the thick snow. We won’t hunt them, of course, since they’re too big for the two of us; killing them would be a damn waste. The mountains, covered in frost and powder snow, are quiet and give off a strong eerie vibe that I’ve learned to enjoy a lot.

Nothing breaks that peace except the occasional encounter with a wild animal. The first time we see a cougar, you’re astounded, and we’re lucky enough to watch him, lying down on our stomachs under a pine tree, as he feast on a white-tailed deer. Probably a member of the herd we’ve seen the tracks before.

“They’re very rare on this side of the country,” I explain, whispering.

“Can you take that shape too?” You ask, wide-eyed.

“Yeah. I’ll show you if you want. But not now, or this one here is gonna be pissed.”

We feed on berries, wild carrots we dig up under the snow, and fresh game, with what’s left of our provisions. A long time ago, I’ve learned how to cook acceptable meals with what I find along the way, and it seems to please you; at least, you enjoy it more than all those flavorless cans we used to buy in New York. I teach you a few recipes and soon, you even try to improve them yourself—and I have to admit, you’re a better cook than I am. Your rabbit stew with rose hips and juniper berries is an absolute delight. Furthermore, focusing on a simple but absorbing task keeps your mind busy or, at least, distracted from intrusive thoughts and memories.

You’re often feeling unsettled by the cold, harsh climate. I know it’s a constant reminder of all the times you were put on ice. But walking all day long keeps you a little warm, even if it’s not much, and at night, we snuggle up against each other under the sleeping bag, next to the fire. It’s enough to keep at bay several panic attacks—but not all of them.

 

A couple of weeks after it started snowing, we meet our first actual obstacle. You notice it first. A strong smell of smoke, coming from right ahead. You freeze, all nerves taut.

“Stop.” You raise a hand in the air. “There's people. Quiet.”

Every single inch of you exhales tension and determination. You're ready to fight. I can hear at least two voices talking, casually. If we stay on the trail, we'll have no choice but to meet them.

We keep moving silently until we can see them. I take a quick glance at the campfire.

“A man and a woman. Middle-aged, it seems.”

“We should take another path,” you say in a hushed whisper.

I throw another look: “They're just some hikers, like us. Nothing to worry about. Come on, let's greet them. We could exchange some tips on the area.”

It's a common rule between hikers to greet and chat a little when we meet. Woods are a lonely world. Even I enjoy meeting new people for a while. As long as they're non-threatening, otherwise they’d usually regret it quick. But these two look like harmless soon-to-be grandparents. I stand up and grab my backpack, already back on the trail.

“No! Jules, don’t go!” You hiss, but you follow me anyway.

 

“... And where are you coming from?”

“New York. We're crossing the country till we reach the west coast. California!” I beam. A lie. We're going deep into the mountains instead. And if we can, during spring we’ll move back to the north until we cross the Canadian border.

“You're a bit late, heh?” The man says. “Winter has already caught you.”

“That's the adventure we were looking for, right, my love?” I give you a little shove with my elbow and you manage to produce a forced smile. Calling you this name, even if it's for fake purpose, sounds... oddly right. Makes me feel a little lightheaded.

We're seated on a log in front of the hikers, sharing a hot cup of coffee with them. They're nice people. They've been walking all around the country for thirty years, each time they had a few days off from their boring jobs. The woman says that's where they feel truly at home. I can only agree with her.

You're right next to me, close enough for me to feel your nervous breath on my face. Your left hand is hidden in your coat's pocket; I know it's fiddling with your knife. Just in case. Relax, man. I’m sure they’re no danger.

“Be careful, right, kids?” The woman warns. “I've heard there are some big bears in the area. Don't forget to hang up your stuff when you get to sleep.”

We haven't seen a single one since the beginning of our journey, though I can tell they've been there, nosy, coming close to the camp at night, trying to determine if they can steal some of our food supplies. Hibernation season is close; they’re feeling hungry. But they know who I am and they respect me.

“Thanks for the advice. Any other tips you'd be willing to share?” I ask, smiling again, pretending I know nothing of the area.

“There's a river nearby; it's full of fishes. You'll never run out of fresh food if you know how to fish.” I nod and open my map so she can point at the place. “Also, keep following on that trail... and you'll get to a small town. Yeah, that one. They've got beds and shops, if you're looking for a break.”

When it's time to leave, I thank them for the coffee and the chat, and we part ways. You keep peeking over your shoulder for an hour, fists clenched in your pockets.

 

Now you're walking ahead of me a little too fast. Usually, there's less than an arm length between us at all time and those several feet between us are upsetting. You haven't said a single word since we left the hikers. I take a few quick steps to catch up with you.

“What's wrong? Hey, what's wrong? Come on, just tell me.”

I grab your elbow, but you jerk and whip around to face me, frowning. “That was the worst idea,” you snap. “They could have been sent to kill us. Don't you realize!?” You're almost shouting at me, out of fear rather than actual anger, but I tense up and freeze where I’m standing, shocked. You’ve never talked to me like that before.

“I—I'm sorry,” I stutter, taken aback. “I thought about it for a second but it didn't make any sense. We're so far from any big town. How could they tell we're down there? And I told you I know that place more than they could ever do.”

You shake your head, glaring at me. “You have no idea. How they operate, how they’re _everywhere_. I've been with them, for heaven's sake!”

“I know that!” I'm yelling too, now. This is absurd.

“No you don't!”

“Why don’t you tell me then? That would make things much, much easier! For both of us!”

You sigh and turn around, looking away, ignoring my question. “Now we'll have to find another path and make sure they're not following us.”

“Well I can do that. I'm not that useless, even if that's what you think,” I leave, wry.

Your shoulders drop. “That's... not what I said.” Eyes downcast, you let out a muffled gasp. “Sorry. That was mean. I shouldn't have gotten mad at you, I… I don’t want them to harm you, Jules. I’m sorry.”

Oh. Shit... You only meant good, right? I take your hand in mine and squeeze hard. “Alright,” I say, no longer upset. “I shouldn’t have yelled either. Let's forget it, okay?”

“Okay.” You squeeze back.

“Anyway, if you’re afraid of being followed, I could gather the ravens who live around so they'd alert me if there's anyone after us. They've got sharp eyes, those little assholes.”

“What—really?”

“Yeah. That's the kind of things I can do. Let me show you.”

Determined to prove you what I'm capable of, I turn into a big raven right in front of you without caring to undress before. My clothes fall on the ground as I fly off high in the sky. Hovering in circles above the woods, I start cawing in all directions. Shortly after, a whole flight of maybe fourty, fifty corvids emerges from the trees nearby, cawing back, shouting inquiring raven words at me. I tell them about my plan, and they’re quite pleased at the idea.

 

_I hope you're impressed_ ; that’s a petty yet satisfying thought that crosses my mind once my little friends go back to their business.

“How did you do that?” You ask, stunned, after I come back to you.

My voice has an odd tone, a consequence of cawing for so long. “I did what works with all corvids. I told them there'd be free food if they warned us about humans following us.” I grin. “And there will be a lot of food if any of these fuckers tries to tail us.”

“Food?” You tilt your head, troubled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I'll kill them with my bare teeth before they can lay a hand on you.” Deep inside my guts, a feral wolf wakes up to the idea of fresh blood, but I shut it down. Now isn’t the right time.

You don't answer, even more puzzled. The rest of the day is spent in full silence as we're both lost in our thoughts. You can’t hide the fact you’re feeling a little uneasy in my company, and you only start to relax once you're settled in my arms, my fingers playing loosely with your hair. Damn, even back then, we couldn't possibly be mad at each other for more than a few minutes, right?

No one went after us after that event. We were lucky. Maybe too much. It made us neglectful, in the end.

  


——

 

One morning, we go over what's left of our food, and we realize we're running out of everything.

“It's time to go back into town, refill our supplies, and wash our clothes, because these are the cleaner we've got and we’re smelling like skunks,” I announce.

“Can't say I disagree.” You make a face, nose wrinkled.

I take our map out of my bag. “The closest town is Blacksburg—just a few miles away, for that we're lucky. With all that snow, it won't be an easy ride, though. You can stay at the camp if you don't feel like it. I'll be back before the night.”

“No, I wanna come with you,” you reply firmly.

“Okay then. We’ll leave as soon as we’re ready.”

 

It was such a trip, and we reached the town later than intended. While you're out looking for supplies, I stay at the laundromat. I was about to come with you, but you said we'd gain time that way. The idea of being in the vicinity of other people for an extended period of time makes you antsy, as I noticed. Before we parted, you told me, “if I'm not back in a hour, then run as far as possible, I'll catch you up later. Send a raven or something.” I laughed when you said that, but it's been forty-five minutes now. I hope you're not having any trouble.

It's weird to be apart from each other, even if it's for such a little amount of time. We've been together all the damn time for months. Oddly, I feel empty all inside.

Bored as hell, I take a look at the pile of newspapers and uninteresting, shallow magazines abandoned on a table. It’s not even distracting.

But one of the newspapers' headlines piques my interest, against all odds. It’s about an international terrorist organisation that was dismantled a few months ago by Captain America, and his alleged ties to one of the organisation’s operatives, a man called James Barnes. I think I’ve heard about this guy before. It says he was a World War Two hero, but now, he’s known as the Winter Soldier, and he’s the most deadliest active assassin. Well, what a time to be alive. I sigh, vaguely amused by our era's insane headlines. Who could go through the last world war and still be active seven decades later?

_Oh shit._ My guts drop. No, that's not possible. It can’t be—

I grab the paper and open it to the article page, reading fast. The article describes the events in full length. A whole mess at Washington DC. Many victims. I heard about that, too. It happened three months ago, maybe. Before I met you.

Just before I met you.

There's a picture. Old. I don't recognize it at first because it's so different from how you look now. Shorter hair, military uniform, self-assured smile. A pretty boy in his twenties. And yet... Those eyebrows, that lovely dimple in the chin; most of all, those stunning eyes of yours. I know every single inch of your face now. Unless you have a twin, I couldn't possibly confuse you with another.

The article tells all about you: you're responsible for at least two dozens assassinations, probably many more. Some of the names listed are... big. Heaven. I knew what they made you do, more or less. But that's even more than I’d have ever imagined. And who you were before the war, too. Best friend with Captain _fucking_ America. Now they treat you like you’re a traitor to the country. What the hell.

A move on my left; I take a quick glance at the window. You're coming back with a huge grocery bag. Anxiety thrumming in my veins, I shove the newspaper page in my backpack as you enter the laundromat. No need to talk about that for now.

“Did you find everything?” I ask you, voice blank.

“Yeah.” You sit down on the chair next to me and we start filling the backpacks. Then we wait together until our clothing is washed and dried. I'm finding myself unable to look at you, let alone talk with you like nothing happened. If you notice anything, you don't mention it.

You're more concerned about the guy who came in with his half-empty laundry basket and sat at the other end of the room. He keeps throwing you low-key, sneak peeks. Weird. Maybe you’re his type. Maybe he saw the news too.

We go back to the woods as soon as we're done. No need to linger here, the trail we came by is already covered with fresh snow. I stare at your shoulders while you lead the way back, thoughts racing, wondering about who you actually are and why you never bothered to tell me before.

 

When I'm preparing tonight's meal, you suddenly drop the shirt with a tear on the left shoulder you were sewing back—it happens all the time because of your prosthesis—, sit down next to me and squeeze my forearm until I’m forced to meet your gaze.

“What's wrong?” You ask, concerned. “You haven't said a word since earlier.”

It's now or never. I take a deep breath, go to my bag; handing you the newspaper page, I point at the black and white picture.

“It's you, right? Back then?”

Your face loses all colors. Gulping down, lowering your head, you nod.

“You never told me,” I say, softly, but it sounds like a reproach anyway.

“Sorry. I couldn't.”

“Why?”

“The less you knew, the more you were protected. And I was afraid you’d... leave me or something.”

“I love you too much to do that, Buck. Come on.”

“Now I know. But I never found the right time to tell you.”

We both look at the newspaper like it's some sort of cursed item. I can't get the words I’ve read out of my mind.

“The Winter Soldier, that’s—”

“Me,” you cut, taut and grim. You have that same blank expression you used to have all the time in the first days. All of this seems senseless. And the whole country’s after you, if not the whole world. What are we going to do? It will never end. They’ll never leave you alone.

“That was... your code name or something?” You nod. I glance down at the article. “And you were operating the Soviets’ orders—that explains that red star on your arm... and Hydra. They’re the ones who caused all that mess in DC, right? They say you worked for them. Like, on your own will. Don't they know you were fucking brainwashed?”

You shrug, lips tight. “I don't think it really matters to anyone.”

“But you're not guilty.” Before you can contradict me, I add: “You shouldn't be there, living like a caveman with me—oh god, Buck. When you told me about your old friend, Steve, it was actually our fucking national hero? I would’ve never guessed. You're a quite famous guy, you know. There were even lectures about you when I was at school. Can you imagine?”

You probably don't want to, though. You shrug again, fidgeting.

“Why don't you go to him?” I ask. “I'm sure he'd be very happy to see you.”

“I can't,” you reply in a whisper. “Not after all I've done. Also... I’m not ready. Not yet.”

I slide an arm around your upper back, rubbing your shoulder. I understand. It's not that easy.

“I almost killed him, he must hate me,” you say, and all of a sudden you're rambling. “I'm not who he thinks I am, not anymore. I'll never be. All is gone. What's left is... Well, you've seen it.”

I put my other hand on yours. “Who you wanna be now, it's up to you and only you, Bucky. You don't have to be what others expect from you. Including your friend.”

Reverting to silence, we contemplate the newspaper’s page for a while, fingers intertwined. I want to burn that damn thing, throw it in the fire, and never think about it anymore. But it’s too late.

“But who am I to you?” You ask.

I don't even have to consider it: “To me? You're just Bucky. A very kind person and an awesome friend. I don’t expect anything else.”

“Thank you. And—” You bite down your lower lip, leaning on my side. “With you... that's where I want to be right now. I decided it on my own, you know.” It feels important for you to say it out loud. You raise your left hand and put it on my heart, tilting your head. “There.”

I smile, resisting the overwhelming urge to kiss you. “You've been there for a long time already. It’s not gonna change, I’m telling you.”

You smile, allowing yourself to breathe at last. For the rest of that night, you hand will linger on my chest.

 

——

 

I wake up with a jolt; dawn is slowly but surely rising in the clear sky. Two owls are calling each other in the distance. Somewhere, a young fox yelps. I try to go back to sleep but something feels odd.

We're sleeping nestled like spoons under the bag and the blankets, and we’ve only left a small opening above our heads for breathing purposes. That way, we’re hardly bothered by the night’s cold. Your arms are holding me tight, my hands in yours; your legs are pressed against mine. We're so close I don't know where your body ends and mine begins—a result of my state of drowsiness, for sure. A lock of your hair is tickling my ear. I can feel your peaceful breath on my neck. And the other thing, too.

Pretending to be asleep, I move my waist backward until it meets your hips. I'm not mistaken, it's what I thought it was. Oh gods, this is so awkward. And so good. So... hard. _No, stop thinking. Don’t be stupid._

Still, it brings back old memories of some great times, at the beginning of my twenties. I was a goddamn fool back then. Now I must be wiser. On top of that, it's most likely just a coincidence; such physiological responses can happen to any sleeping man. I know what it’s like.

_This one would be a great partner_ , a nasty voice says in my head. On top of that, I’m starting to get hard as well. _That’s it, turn around and let him feel your cock too_ . Dammit, I could slap myself right now. _What would happen if you started something_? Don't. Even. Think about it. I'm never gonna touch someone who's sleeping, especially not you, Bucky. I'm not that awful, for heaven's sake.

And you have so many better things to do than that, like surviving and coping with your past and horrible memories that come along with it. You're not interested in anything like that. Me neither; me neither. I repeat these thoughts to myself for a couple of minutes. I'm over it. I haven't had a single partner in years and I'm perfectly fine with it.

Suddenly you have a muffled moan in your sleep, and you rub your hips on mine for a split second. As your cock settles against my ass, my breathing hitches. A guilty shiver runs down my back. Damn, that's a situation. What do I do? Wake you up? Not an option, you're sleeping untroubled for once and I don't want you to feel bad if you notice what's happening. Go back to sleep? I'll never be able to. Not with that thing pressing against me.

So I wait and try not to enjoy it too much, blaming myself when my mind makes me imagine stuff I refuse to venture into. For the first time ever, the sleeping bag feels too tight. You finally wake up after an endless and frustrating half-hour. You don't seem to know what just happened, or you're good at pretending; however, your eyes avoids mine for the rest of that morning.

 

——

  


A distant caw; it’s coming from the top of an old pine. These damn birds have been telling their mates about the free food all over the country, huh? My heart skips a beat when I recognize the name wildlife gave me here. “ _Half one, Half one. Behind you.”_ A warning.

“Buck, wait. They found us.”

“What? No...”

I lift my head to look at the trees. Three new corvids are standing on a branch, croaking all together. “The ravens say they come from the town. That must be where they got our lead again.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” I say, helpless. I remember the weird guy at the laundry. Maybe I was right after all.

“How many?”

I caw back at the raven with an heavy, terrible human accent. They get it anyway. “Eight. Weapons. They're close,” I translate. Eight? We’re gonna die.

_“Food. Food? Food?”_ The ravens ask while I speak to you, and ten seconds later, an entire choir of birds has gathered around us, repeating that word over and over. Dammit. They’re gonna reveal our whereabouts if they keep going on.

“ _Shut up!_ ” I shout at them, and they all fall silent. “ _Food if quiet. Now go. Follow us. Quiet!”_ To my relief, they get it quickly, even though they’re quite offended by my orders.

“There's no time.” Your voice is shaking; you look all around us, distressed. “We gotta leave. They’re too many.”

I let you lead the way. You're almost running and I have to follow the large trail you’re drawing in the snow. It's bad, very bad. It's snowing a little but even so, it won't be enough to cover up our steps as we move forward. They're gonna read them like an open book.

After almost an hour, I make a stop, exhausted. We haven't covered a lot of ground. And the ravens say they're getting closer. Less than a mile now.

“I have an idea. I can do something. Ask for help for when they come at us,” I say, breathless.

“I don't want to fight, we must keep moving,” you reply.

“We won't have a choice, I think. They’re too fast. But it’s up to you.”

“Do your thing then.”

No need to ask twice. I drop my bag on the ground, climb up on a boulder nearby and take a deep breath. Then I howl, longly, as loud as possible.

You're staring at me like I'm going mad. I know mate, that's not stealthy _at all_. That's stupid. It's the only solution I've got right now.

After a while, a bunch of wolf voices answer back.

_“Human. Who are you? What do you want?”_

_“I'm your Half one,”_ I explain. “ _I need your help.”_

_“We know you. Help? Why?”_

_“Bad, bad humans. Hunting me and my human mate.”_

A thoughtful silence. They’re the only wolves left in the area. I helped them before, by luring hunters far from their pack as well as a few others things; they owe me a favour or two. Thanks god they're not so far away. They can be here in a short time. But it means putting themselves in great danger for us. And they don't like that.

_“We will come for you,”_ they announce eventually to my relief. “ _The fight is yours, Half one. We help, we feast.”_

I jump from the rock to come back to you. “Let's go. They'll be here soon.”

“Who?”

“My friends the wolves.”

 

The night has fallen on the forest. A dash of flashlight breaks through the falling snow, right in our direction, followed by a surprised, triumphant call. They’re here. “Let's hide,” I say, diving behind a large tree. You follow me and put your bag on the ground.

“You don't intend to fight, do you,” you mumble, unclenching your jaws with difficulty.

“Of course I’m fighting. What am I supposed to do, stay there watch you as you get slaughtered?” Your whole face says yes. “I can't do that, Buck. I wanna help.”

“No—“

A detonation right above our heads. Oh, so they won’t even bother with talking first. Fine. I start unzipping my coat. “No time to discuss. Find cover and stalk them from behind. I'll join you in a moment. Not alone.” I can smell the wolves scent in the air. You seem to think it's a good strategy, because you draw your knife from your pocket and vanish in a second. Okay. Time for me to shine, right?

I take my wolf form. My senses expand: I can now feel the hunters’ smell as well as the wolves’. And curiously, the men are smelling like fear. So even them are scared of facing the goddamn Winter Soldier? Good. _They haven't met the both of us yet,_ I think, mostly to stomp my own fear down.

Invisible, the other wolves are circling the men. There are seven of them. They kept their youngs and their weaker mates away from the fight; good. I join them and we start growling loudly. The fear rises; the men were expecting a single person, maybe two, not a whole pack of wild beasts. Wolves never attack humans unless they have no other choice, but these guys have no idea, and our pack can leave them weaker, distract them from their real target.

Our enemies turn to face us, their rifles raised, except they can't see us with all that snow, and the night plays in our advantage. That's when you decide to strike. In a single jump, you're behind one of them; your metal hand breaks his neck before he knows you're here. It’s a good diversion, and as you disappear again we all emerge from the bushes. They're so slow, it's almost too easy. Why did they sent such losers to hunt you down?

I take one down, tearing off his exposed throat with my fangs while you punch another in the guts and grab him to stab his carotid. It's ugly, and when you turn back to face a third opponent I notice you’ve got blood splattered all over your cheek. You're baring your teeth with the effort. Wild, so wild. My heart drops: you're a fierce wolf, just like us. In that moment, I'm feeling so proud of you. And damn, I know for sure you wouldn't appreciate that.

They fall down one after the other, unable to focus on their main target only. The wolves are too fast for their poor aiming skills, it’s like a game of fake attacks and loud barking to them; and you, well… You can block bullets with your left hand, for heaven’s sake.

A guy tries to shoot at me so I dive behind a rock to avoid the bullets. That was close. _“Weak hunters, like cubs,”_ I tell the wolves, and they all start gloating and mocking them.

I hear you screaming and I turn around just in time to see one guy—no, it's a woman—has managed to grab you with an arm around your throat, a combat knife in her other hand, while another aims at your head. They're ordering you to surrender. You struggle, growling.

I run. Too slow. Too far away. Hawk, quick. I dash just above the snow, faster than the wind, and I shift again—an elk—right before hitting the guy with the rifle, impaling him on my antlers with all the strength I can give. I haul him on the ground over a few feet, but he's already dead. Meanwhile, you've taken advantage of your opponent's stupefaction and quickly ended her days. Well, we won't regret that bastard.

A heavy silence falls back on the woods.

That was the last one. Exhausted, I shift back into my human form, breathing heavily, crouched over my last victim. I gasp in horror as a strong dizziness strikes me. My face and my hair are covered with sticky, foul blood—I can feel its taste in my mouth too. Human blood. Disgusting. It's dripping on my chest, and I remember I’m fully naked in the snow.

“Jules?” Your soft voice startles me and I snarl at you, stiffening. “It's me. It's Bucky,” you say as you take a few cautious steps towards me in the dark. Good thing you can’t see me well. “Are you alright?”

Not now. Please. Don’t look at me. “Sorry,” I groan, and I turn back into a wolf before vanishing with the rest of the pack.

 

When I come back to you, cleansed from all the blood and dressed again, you're searching the bodies, a flashlight in your hand. The wolves are gathered a little further, looking at you with interest and impatience, waiting for the feast. They don't eat human flesh usually; but winter is harsh, and they have young cubs to feed. A big amount of ravens are standing on the trees nearby, and a small flock is already feeding on the entrails of the guy I killed last. You act as if they weren’t there. A good attitude.

“Bucky,” I call. You turn back, quiet. Waiting for me to make the first move. “Sorry. For earlier. I was still an animal. It was, uh, unsafe, I think.” Most of all, I didn’t want you to see how I looked with all that blood on me.

“It's nothing,” you assure, but I can see you're pretty freaked out. “I haven’t found anything. Except they were from Hydra, obviously. They had trackers on them so I destroyed it all. But they were disorganized. It's odd.”

“My friends and I acted as a surprise element, they weren't expecting that. Made them weak,” I gloat. “If you've got nothing more to do, then we should leave. Our fellows here are hungry.”

“I'd rather hide the bodies,” you reply, worried.

“When the wolves and the ravens will be done, there won't be bodies anymore. Only bones with their gear and clothes. And snow will cover up the whole place until next spring. We’ll be far away by the time someone stumble on them.”

You stand up, reluctant, but you come back to me anyway. Even in the night, I can tell you're feeling sick.

“C’mon, Buck,” I urge. “Let's leave. We gotta run away from here in case they send more guys, and find a safe place for tonight.”

Once I thanked and said goodbye to the wolves, we run away, as fast as our weariness allows us, from that hell pit. The way you follow me, eyes down, almost submissive, is gut-wrenching. You look like you’re on the verge of breaking down. I gotta take care of you, quick.


	6. Chapter 6

_Around a campfire, North Carolina, December 2014_

 

We walk for a good part of the night until we end up taking shelter underneath a rock ledge, away from wind and snow. 

You look better once you're clean. However, you refuse to eat anything, not even rice, and I won't force you. I carefully put a blanket around your shoulders and kiss your hair before preparing the rest of the camp. Your blank expression worries me a lot.

“We can keep the fire for the night. These rocks and thickets will hide us. We should be safe here.”

“I hope so.” You speak like you're miles and miles away.

“The whole forest will help us tonight. Don't worry.”

You raise your head with a frown, slowly, remembering what happened. “The wolves. How did you know they were around?”

“I’ve crossed their territory several times over the years. And they’ve left a few fresh marks in the area, we’re lucky I’ve noticed them.” How wonderful; we survived thanks to wolf poop.

“Why did they come?”

“I helped them a few times before. And once, I healed one of their youngs who'd been injured. They owed me a good one. Now I'm the one who does. That's how it works with wolves. At least, tonight, they'll feast with our friends the ravens. Winter’s harsh to everyone.”

You don’t say anything for a while, thoughtful. The fire crackles when I throw a log in the flames.

“I didn’t want to kill again,” you mumble. You’re consumed by a strong sense of shame, and it feels hotter than the flames.

“I know. But it’s not like they gave us a choice. And they were from Hydra. They earned it, don’t you think?”

You turn you gaze away, lips sealed in a thin line. I can’t imagine what kind of damage it’s doing to you. The dilemma in your mind.

“That time, when you said you'd kill them. That's what you meant.” 

It’s not a question. “Yeah,” I admit.

“I didn't know you did... that kind of stuff.”

“Does it bother you?” I ask.

“No. I mean—you saved me. But... You weren't even scared. Did you enjoy it?”

So that’s what it is. You must be thinking I’m a bloodthirsty monster now. “As a human being, not at all. As a wolf, well... Wolves are predators. Killing is what we do best. But I'm not a fighter or a killer. I only do what any animal does when it's about pure survival. Defending myself and those I love. So no, I didn’t enjoy it. And I  _ was _ scared, to the bone.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mistaken, I'm not afraid to cause death. I did it in the past. And not just once. I wouldn't be here to talk to you otherwise. In this world, it's kill or be killed.” I shrug, looking away.

“I see.” You're even less talkative than before. Am I disappointing you? Do you think I’m no better than those who tortured you?

“You're not angry at me, are you?” I ask, cautious.

“No. Never. Just... You’ve put yourself in great danger.” You sigh, tossing the embers with a twig. “Don't do that again.”

I groan. “I'll do whatever is necessary to protect you from any threat.” Surprised, you blink, and you shake your head. “Bucky. I mean it.”

“You're not the first one who said that to me.”

I know who you're talking about, and I share his point of view. “And he did it, he protected you when it was needed, am I wrong? So I'm doing it too. You deserve it, Buck.”I put another log in the fire and I stare at it for a good while, bracing myself. It’s now or never. “I'm sorry I'm not the person you thought I was. I guess I should’ve told you the truth before. About who I was, before.”

You finally turn your face in my direction and you wait for me to keep speaking. Feeling cold all of a sudden, I join you under the blanket, then I take a deep breath.

“My parents are both dead. I've got no family left, except for my little sister, who'd most likely attempt to sue me if I ever meet her again. I think I’m wanted all over the country.”

“What happened?”

“I killed my father.” I gulp down. I already regret saying that. “Before you draw your own conclusions, let me tell you: that bastard deserved it. He's responsible for my mom's death, who, basically, was the only person who ever loved me for what I am.” I take a quick glance at you. “Until very recently.” Your hand slides up my back, stroking it in a gentle gesture. At least you're not judging me, it seems. “I couldn’t protect her. He was... violent. With all of us, but mostly with my mother. I don’t even know why she married him in the first place. She did everything she could to keep us away from him but it wasn't enough. We could never be happy, you know.”

“Did he ever—”

The heavy tone of your voice implies what you're afraid to ask. I can feel the anger simmering under your skin, radiating through your nerves. “Ugh. No. Never. Emotional abuse was more his thing. I guess I should feel lucky, uh? Anyway, when I was like sixteen and my sister, fourteen, my mother had become a complete mess. She took pills to sleep, pills to stop being anxious, pills to soothe chronic pains... Until she took pills to kill herself—because of something he had told her that day. I never knew what. She wasn't able to break free from the cage he'd built around her, so she found the only exit she had left.” I make a pause, arms crossed. “I loved her so much. She never made me feel like a freak. She was encouraging me all the time and most of all, I felt safe with her around. Once she was gone... It would’ve been hell, and I ended it my own way, mostly to protect my sister.” 

My eyes are wet now, but I swallow down my tears. I've stopped crying since a long time.

“So you murdered him?”

“I was devastated. All those years of concealed rage against him, I couldn’t hold it any longer. Social services would've done nothing for us—they never did. So. It was easy. He enjoyed hunting; I was a beast. When he went to the local woods a few days later... Fuck, he didn't even care a split second about her death, it was so awful, you can't imagine. He showed up at her funerals but he didn’t shed a single tear. Anyway, I followed him in the forest behind our home, and I turned into a deer to lure him into a part of the wood he didn’t know well.”

“And...?”

“And when he thought he was about to shoot me down, I shapeshifted into a wolf and ripped his fucking throat apart. I let him rot there, I guess they never found the body. My only satisfaction is that he died knowing who killed him.”

“He knew about your abilities?”

“Yeah. He could never restrain me from using it. And he hated that. Always saying I was a useless monster and all.”

Your fingers leave my back a second to slip under my coat; they start drawing slow circles between my shoulder blades. It's soothing.

“You did what was right, Jules,” you comfort me. Damn, I love you  _ so much _ .

“Maybe. Maybe not. Only sure thing is, I’m a fucking murderer.”

“What happened after that?”

“I told the truth to my sister as soon as she came back from school. I was planning to run away with her. And… She freaked out, lock herself up in her room and called the cops before I could stop her. So I stole all the money our father had hidden in his office, and I left. I ran as far as possible, hiding in the wild, wandering alone or finding shelter with people I met along the way. Defending myself with teeth and claws when I had to, learning how to survive on my own, finding new shapes to experience. Until you broke into my place.” Our eyes meet and I can see tears are watering under your long eyelashes.

“We have much more in common than I thought,” you say, your voice so low I can barely hear it.

“You think so?”

You nod. “We're both fugitives. We both went through hell. We both killed.”

“But I did it on my own will.”

“Yet you didn't really have a choice.”

Feels like I did, though. I could've chosen another way. I picked the easiest solution each time I was facing some difficulty.

“Do you regret it?” You ask.

“Not really. I told you, he earned it. No one’s gonna miss him. Plus, he was probably not my actual dad. My mother and him were white, my sister as well, but me… Can’t really say I’m pale-skinned, uh?”

“You were... adopted?” 

“I don’t think so, I still look like my mother. She never told me anything about my birth, though.” I shrug, and I lean my temple against yours. It was hard to open up to you like that, and my head is throbbing with pain. But somehow, I feel way better. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you say.

“And thanks for not hating me, Buck.”

You put your right hand around my cheek, stroking my cheekbone with your thumb. It’s hard to hold your gaze. “How could I? You’re such a lovely pal.”

My heart melts and I smile, chuckling, enjoying the sweet contact of your hand. “C’mon, I’m not lovely.” I take a deep breath. “I thought I was gonna lose you today. I couldn't stand it, I had to protect you. You're my only family now, you know that?”

What a shitty day. But everything seems better now. I've got you and you've got me. I feel like I could climb a fucking mountain, and it’s great—until I'm struck by a burst of crippling terror.

“It’s a miracle we survived. Do you think they'll send more of them?” I ask.

“Most likely. We should get away as quick as possible. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” I remove my shoes and curl up under the sleeping bag; you join me, holding me close to you. We smell like sweat and blood and death. But we're safe for now. Unable to sleep, we share a silent night by the fire, startled by every single sound, eyes locked on the deep dark woods.

 

——

 

Snow keeps falling; the world around us is becoming a very strange place, almost magical. The forest, getting denser with every mile, offers a nice protection against the elements. We can't progress as fast as I'd wish, though. Whether those Hydra guys know about what we did to their guys or not, they doesn't send any more operatives after all, or they can't find our tracks; in a way, it’s better not to know.

Fortunately, the weather isn't so cold. At least we're used to it. I spent many winters in woods like those and you, well, you've been made to endure all kinds of climates. Freezing temperatures don't bother you so much, but they bring bad memories with them.

We don't sleep at the same time anymore now. Instead, one of us stays awake while the other grabs some rest. It's weird at first, those long hours of watch in complete silence. Only the crackling fire and your slow breath break it. Sometimes, it's a yelping fox or an owl right above our heads. While those noises should startle me, I find them comforting. They feel like home.

After a few nights, I get to enjoy the times during which I'll sit against a fir tree and you'll lie down on your back between my legs, your head on my chest, lulling you to sleep and soothing you when you're having nightmares. You don't sleep much; maybe four or five hours each night. I know your watching turns are longer than mine and you'll only wake me up when you can no longer keep your eyes open. I tried to discuss it with you, but you dismissed it with a vague gesture, assuring you didn't need that much sleep anyway. I'm not pleased with it: you need rest. Everyday you're a little more exhausted, and it stands out a mile. But it's your decision. Your choice. I respect that above all.

After a whole week, we finally reach a very wild and steep part of the mountains. Now it's going to be harder for anyone to find us. I know how to recognize a good place; we're going to be safe down here.

That's when the blizzard catches us.

 

At first, it's only a sharp, howling wind carrying a thick snow with it. We hurry up, climbing along a sloped trail. All around us, the trees are shaking furiously. It's getting cold as balls and while we’ve got warm clothes, we’re not equipped to face such a weather.

When it gets stronger and louder and we can't see a damn thing anymore, I grab your arm and drag you close to me, shouting at your ear:

“We have to find cover! That storm's gonna kill us!”

Actually, we're caked with snow. The backpacks feel too heavy for our weary shoulders, and I can’t feel my feet anymore.  We're slowing down, without a doubt. This is bad.

“Where?” You yell back, protecting your eyes with your left hand’s palm.

“Up there!” I point at the top of the trail. “I think there's a cliff straight ahead, we can find refuge under.”

Without thinking twice, we dash through the elements as fast as we can. You fall on your knees once, because of a hidden root—I help you stand up again and we move forward, holding each other by the waist.

We reach the cliff after an eternity. There's a long cavity carved by the elements at the base, and it'll be enough. We run and take cover against the stone. Unfortunately, the wind reaches us even there.

“It's not enough,” I say, looking around me, and I notice a fallen trunk leaning on the cliff. I take our rope out of my bag.  “We have to make a shelter. See those fallen branches and that trunk? We’re gonna build something with it.”

And so we are, grabbing long pine branches the wind has broken. When we have enough, we tie them to the trunk, leaving just enough space to crawl under. We throw the backpacks in the opening. “We should consolidate it with snow,” you suggest. It's a good idea. Despite the cold, you're panting, brow covered with glistening sweat. If even you are tired from the effort, I wonder how much of a mess I must be right now.

Once it's done, it looks like a very ugly quinzhee, but at least it's robust. It'll do the job. We slip by the entrance, oriented so the wind won't sneak in, and we close it with another bunch of branches. Then we remove our soaked coats, boots, trousers, and we unroll the sleeping bag and our blankets. It’s a miracle they’re not soaked.

“You cold?” I ask.

“Yeah.” You're quivering, actually. It's weird. Unusual.

“Come here.” I open the sleeping bag. The ground is made of cold rock and we're gonna lose heat more than anything, but there’s no other choice. Later, we'll have to spread moss, dead leaves and pine needles on the ground to insulate it. Later. For now, we're huddling together, trying to get warmer. You're frowning deep, lips shaking.

“What's wrong?” I ask, worried. You never seemed to suffer the cold like that before.

“Don't know. Cold. My arm hurts.”

I pull at your collar to take a look at your shoulder and I gasp in horror. The line of flesh separating your body from artificial parts is much redder than usual. Almost swollen. And your prosthesis is literally frozen; your sweat has turned into ice on the metal.

“That must be because of the temperature. And that wind.” It's still howling mad outside. Ruthless. “You arm absorbs heat, but also cold. I think it's hurting your body.” I can only make assumptions, I have no idea how this thing works.

Too bad we can't make a fire. But I have a—rather stupid—idea. I unzip my sweater and make you stick your arm against my torso. Here, take my body heat. It's so cold I can feel it through my shirt. No wonder it's hurting you from the inside.

“It's going to be okay,” I whisper to your ear. 

“You’re gonna get cold too,” you croak.

“Doesn’t matter.” I can already feel it, though. You shift on your side to face me and start clinging narrowly, your fingers curled against my chest. Our naked legs are tangled together, I can feel your hips against mine. And... not just your hips, I have to admit. Your hot breath on my throat sends a shiver down my spine; a burning feeling flares up between my legs before I can contain it. Crap. Now is not the right time, dumbass. As discreet as possible, I move a little so you won't notice all the pretty awkward things you're doing to me. I could shapeshift into a woman body but with your arm against my torso, it would makes it even weirder.

Your lips are pale blue, and you're shaking like you're having a bad fever. I'm worried to the guts. While we've been together for a long time now, I don't really know how you function—if I may say. Can you get sick? Does your arm need to be repaired, could it be damaged by the frost? I'm not even sure you know it yourself.

You're tightening your embrace. “Bucky?” I ask, raising a numb hand to brush your cheek. No answer. I repeat your name, once, twice, until you blink and lock your gaze with mine.

“Don't let them take me,” you whine. You're hanging on me, desperate. “Don't let them put me back under. Please. Please.” It's not just the awful weather. Not just your arm hurting. It's one of your bad days, too. You're starting to cry. I wipe your tears before they can freeze on your cheeks and give you a little kiss on the nose.

“I won't, I swear. They're not here anymore. It's only you and I, Buck, sweetheart. You're safe; I'm here. I'm here. I'm he—”

“I love you,” you choke out of the blue, crying even more. “I love you. So much.” Even though your voice is no more than a faint, raspy whisper, I suck in a sharp breath as it echoes through me like a thunderstorm.

“I love you too, pal,” I manage to say.

But we're a little more than just pals, right?

We stay silent for a long while, our mingled breaths drawing tiny puffs between our mouths, my hands running up and down your back while I try to ignore the acute sensation of your bare skin on mine. Once you're warm again, I'm about to release you, in case you need space; you only pull me closer. Around us, the neverending storm keeps raging, swaddling us in a harsh but oddly soothing universe.

  
  


_ —— _

_ A mountain forest, North Carolina, January 2015 _

 

We decided to stay there for a while. A week or two. I want you to rest and this time I won't let your damn stubbornness win over me—always telling me you could keep going even though you were wearing yourself down day after day. I've been dragging you along in these woods for more than two months now and we never took the time to take an actual break, too busy hunting for food and running away from all kinds of threats.

These mountains are... magnificent. There's no other word. Sure, the weather is harsh and it's freezing night and day now. Other than that, it's a delight to go and explore it with you.

There's a rushing stream nearby; the water is so clean we can drink it without concern, isn't it amazing? It leads to a small lake—fortunately, it's not frozen—where I teach you how to build a fish trap with stones and sticks. It's rudimentary but it works fine and soon, we have more food than we can actually eat. We release the fish we don't need and we cook delicious meals with the rest. First lesson of the wildt: it's important to avoid killing when it's unnecessary.

I show you how to find edible plants in the middle of winter, how to dig the ground for nutritive roots and craft snares to catch rabbits. You can never starve if you know about the wilderness secrets. Along with that, you learn how to read animals prints during the day and how to use the stars as a guide during the night.

You were a city guy, as you say, so you don't know shit about all that stuff. Yet, you seem to enjoy it a lot, asking questions all the time, suggesting new ideas, helping as much as you can. It distracts you from the rest, I suppose.

“Hey, I just remembered,” you tell me once with a pensive smile. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a park ranger for a while. Funny, uh?”

“Never too late to live up to your dreams,” I say, patting your shoulder.

You laugh—a true blessing, I love it even more than the forest’s sounds. We get closer each day. Didn't know that was even possible.

“I worked as a ranger for a while, shortly after I ran away. It was a nice job. Too bad my boss found out about my real identity. Had to run away once again.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“Sure.” Since we had that discussion after the attack, you’re eager to hear new parts of my story. And when you’re in the mood, you share some of yours with me, too—the good and the bad.

 

I keep a tiny calendar in my backpack, and I check it regularly to make sure I don't miss some parts of the year. Like mom's birthday. We've been quite busy lately and I forgot to count the passing days, though. When I do eventually, I realize it's been January for more than a week.

“Happy New Year,” I tell you while you're writing in your book. You raise your head, confused.

“Uh… Happy New Year. Which year is it again?”

“2015.”

“Damn, I'm getting old,” You joke, to my surprise. You huff a tiny chuckle as I snort the water I was drinking.

“Crap! Ow—“ I cough, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. It’s disgusting—but you don’t seem to mind.

“My bad.” You're grinning. I swear, that cocky smile will be the loss of me. “Should we kiss, though? Is it something people from the future still do?”

“Yes,” I reply a little too fast.

Giggling at your own joke, you don't realize I've answered both questions.

  
  


Instead of a few days, we stay for more than a month. Times gets slower and slower around us. We're feeling comfortable, maybe a little too much, but we’ve found the perfect hiding place and that shelter we've built is more than enough for our simple needs. We extend it twice; in the end, it's almost a hut—following a very prehistorical style. It's comfy anyway, and it allows us to rest at last.

And god, how much you needed it. Despite the fear of being caught, having a place to come back to every evening is doing you good. On very rare occasions, I can even get the pleasure to hear your laughter more than once a day.

  
  


One morning, I wait until we’re done with our breakfast—boiled lentils with some spices and a hare I killed yesterday—to hand you an old cloth bag I had kept hidden at the bottom of my backpack. It’s nothing like gift wrap but it’s doing the job. 

“Merry Christmas,” I announce, beaming.

“It can’t be Christmas… You told me it was a new year the other day, right?” You ask, perplexed. Shit. I’m such an idiot. Sometimes you’ll mix up days or even years; it’s not that common but it happens enough for you to be very insecure about it. Dates are a thing your brain seems to have trouble to grasp, and I’ve just made it worse. What kind of friend am I, really?

“My bad,” I apologize, sheepish. “No, it’s not, but I… That’s a Christmas gift for you. It’s a bit late, I hope you’ll appreciate it anyway.”

Eyebrows raised as if you don’t entirely believe what’s happening, you take the knitted scarf I carefully placed inside the bag for you. It’s dark red with black borders on each ends. Colors that won’t stand out a lot in a forest during winter, I hope.

“It’s for… For me? You made it for me?” You murmur, breathless, unfolding it with slow, cautious moves. 

“At first I had planned to make it for myself but… Your scarf is literally falling into pieces, and I thought you’d like it, maybe.” It’s true, though. You’re constantly fidgeting with loose threads, and the more you pull at them, the more it creates new holes. I knitted this one tight: at least it will resist your fingers, in theory.

“When did you make it? I’ve never seen you working on it.”

“At night, mostly.” To keep it a surprise, I’ve been knitting it when you were asleep, during my night watches. Keeping an eye on the fire and the forest all around was boring after a couple of days, so I had that idea. We can never have enough scarves.

“It’s so soft.”, You keep stroking the yarn with your right palm. “I don’t deserve it. Thank you.”

“It’s not much, but it’ll keep you warm.”

“I have nothing to offer in return,” you say in a soft voice, glancing up at me. 

“You’re here. That’s enough for me.” I smile and I put my hand on your shoulder.

“I’m not exactly a gift,” you reply, wry.  _ You’re so much more than that _ , I want to say, but I keep it for myself. 

“Why don’t you try it? I’m sure it’ll look great on you!” I suggest, eager to lighten the conversation. 

As I thought, it looks awesome, and it seems you like it a lot, because from now on you keep it around your neck night and day, gently rubbing it between your fingers from time to time. But to my surprise, your hands never attempt to tear this one apart. 

  
  


Speaking of hands… I’m not sure whether or not I should write that down. It’s gonna sound so silly, you see. But something tells me this is definitely something you’ll love to remember if you ever read this diary.

It happened in the middle of an exhausting day we had spent hunting, carrying wood for the fire and big stones to consolidate the shelter’s walls. We were taking a break near the river to fill up our canteens and sit down a moment.

“Shit, I can barely move an inch,” I say, stretching my back and my shoulders. Carrying a heavy bag on a daily basis is a thing; walking around with logs and pebbles, another one.

Without a word, you sit down next to me on a fallen trunk and you start running your right palm between my shoulder blades. Surprised but pleased above all, I lean into the touch, humming. 

“How does it feel?” You ask, interrupting your movement. 

“Hella good,” I mumble, closing my eyes. “Can you do it again?” Your hand lingers there a little more before sliding down my spine, warm and soothing. I have to bite down on my lips to hold back the lightning bolt it sends through my nerves.

“Turn around, please,” you say, and you settle on the trunk so that you’re facing my back, your legs brushing on both sides of my thighs. You’re so close I can feel your body heat through your jeans.  _ Oh god. _

On a whim, I remove my coat and hang it on a branch of the fallen tree; a foolish mistake, considering how cold it is today, but in that moment, I don’t give a flying fuck about it. I only care about feeling your hands as much as possible.

“Steve used to say I had good hands,” you tell me while rubbing my shoulders in slow circles. My heart rate goes up as your hot breath caresses my neck.

“Well it’s still the case today, I assure you.” 

“I used to do that for him when his back was hurting him. It helped a little.” 

“What did he have?”

“Scoliosis. If I remember correctly.”

“That shit is a pain in the ass,” I comment, making a face. I’m starting to wonder what kind of relationship you used to have with him. Two grown men massaging each other in the early decades of the twentieth century? Come on… 

“Where do  _ you  _ hurt now?” You ask in a low voice.

_ Everywhere your hands aren’t _ , I think, burning from the inside. “Lower back. I feel like someone punched me there.”

“Hm. Let’s see…” And you slide your hands under my jumper, under my shirt and my tee; directly on my skin. I try not to gasp, it’d startle you and you’d stop and it’d be a shame, so instead I let you put your palms on each side of my waist, with your fingers gently digging into my hips while your thumbs work on my back. Running up and down, slow, precise. I feel like an overflow—the most pleasant kind—is raging through me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been touched that way.

How can you not see I’m dying for you? I swear, my heartbeat is so fast you can surely hear it. Your left hand is a bit cold, but it’s great, because I can feel it  _ even more _ . I want to sink into that touch for the rest of my days.

Once you’re done, I turn around to face you, smiling, doing my best to hide the fact I’m shaking mad, flushed with a mix of need and pleasure; I take your hands in mine and kiss them gently. “Thank you, you’re the best.” Your cheekbones are reddened, and I want to believe that’s not only a consequence of the cold weather. “You need anything, you just tell me, pal.”

“Actually,” you reply slowly, “My back is aching too. Could you…?”

“Sure. Just let me know if it’s—you know, too much.”

You nod, presenting me your back so I can return the favor. 

We didn’t work any longer that day. I think I could’ve made it last for hours, judging by the way you enjoyed being touched that way. I could feel all your muscles unwind under my fingers, one after the other, until you started dozing off and I had to stop, making sure you weren’t falling asleep on that tree trunk. I just wish I had been able to dare and slip my hands under your shirt to feel your skin, like you did on me. But I didn’t want to push things too far, you see. I was afraid it would cross your boundaries, and breaking the casual intimacy we had been building all along was too much of a risk.

_ It’s enough _ , I kept telling myself.  _ It’s way more than enough. _


	7. Chapter 7

_A quiet morning, North Carolina, February 2015_

 

Night is slowly giving way to the dawn. Under the shape of a swallow, I skim fast over the snow, between the trees, to go back to camp. Let’s hope I won’t get caught by a wild cat on the way.

Hunched over the fire, your notebook on your lap and a pen in your right hand, you don’t even notice me when I dash into the shelter to shift back and get dressed. Once it’s done, I come out, clearing my throat. You jump, startled, left hand already in your coat’s pocket to pull out your knife—but your shoulders drop as soon as you see me.

“Hey, Bucky,” I greet with a quick peck on your cheekbone. You smell like fire smoke and dry lichen. My nose buried in your hair, I take a second or two to breathe in, reveling in that familiar, home-like scent.

“Where were you?” You ask, scooting over to give me some room on the log we use as a seat. Your thigh brushes mine as I sit down close to you. “I was getting worried.”

“Sorry. I didn’t wanna wake you up, sweetie. I went swimming in the lake.”

“Swimming? In the _lake_?” You repeat, taken aback.

“As an otter,” I explain.

“But it must be so cold!”

“Not if you have insulating fur.” I wink at you with a grin; you laugh, shaking your head. At least I feel cleaner, now—washing everyday with heated water in a pot and some soap has its limits. “You woke up long ago?”

“Half an hour, maybe. I was missing you in the bed.”

I run my fingers in your hair, beaming even more; a hot flush creeps on my cheeks. Do you even realize the innuendo behind your words?

We share a quiet breakfast as the sun rises over the mountains. A woodpecker is working on an old tree trunk just above the camp; we’ve been dwelling here for so long wildlife isn’t scared of us anymore. Thoughtful, we contemplate the way the morning sun slowly emerge above us. Gold light between tall pine trees, shining snow, the sound of the forest waking up after a long, bitter cold night. Oddly overwhelmed, I close my eyes to enjoy that solar heat on my face.

“It’s so beautiful here,” you say, soft voice breaking the silence.

I open my eyes with a pleased sigh. “I know. That’s why I love winter so much. It can be warm too, sometimes. And beautiful, yeah.”

You stare at me, an unusual tranquility sweetening your features. You’re even more breathtaking than the landscape. Your golden eyelashes, so delicate, the little crow’s feet at the corners of your eyes, right above the cold-induced, reddish tinge of your cheekbones. Not to mention the shades of your iris, akin to slow, calm reflections on a river’s surface. Their color slightly changes with the light : pale blue during sunny days, grey when it's snowing, dark green when it's cloudy. I could drown myself into that sight for the rest of my days.

“He was always in a bad shape during winter.” It takes me a while to realize you’re talking about your friend, Steve. “But now, he can no longer get sick.”

You’ve been mentioning him more and more often, these days. Maybe your memories are beginning to make sense at last? Maybe you’re even able to follow the tenuous, erratic narrative of your life, now. I can’t say. You never tell me.

“He’s lucky, then,” I comment, stretching my arms. I’ve had my own share of diseases during the cold season, too. It’s one of the many reasons I avoid cities in the winter.

“Not so much,” you say, doubt lining your face.

I realize the conversation is picking at some open wound, so I decide to change the subject: “Wanna hunt with me today?” I ask, patting your shoulder before getting up.

You nod and, once I turned into a bobcat, you follow me through the never ending magnificence of the woods. By the end of the morning, we manage to get two rabbit and even a wild, fat turkey. Plucking it is a fucking mess, but we’ll have food for the rest of the week, and we can also use the feathers as padding for our rough mattress; it’s way, way softer than pine needles.

 

Your hair is getting really long. One day, after washing your head with hot steaming water that makes your cheeks turn carmine, you hand me a pair of scissors.

“I can't stand it anymore,” you mutter, long strands of wet hair brushing your chin.

“But I'm gonna ruin it,” I reply, hesitant. You shrug. “Okay. How short do you want it to be?”

“It's up to you. You're the only one who can see me after all. Gotta be pretty for you, right?”

Oh, boy. I'd rather let you choose your own hairstyle, but heh, I'm definitely glad you said that. Trying not to blush, I start combing your hair and cutting it carefully. You don't flinch, even when the scissors brush your skin. You like having your hair touched—gently, of course. I decide to keep it long, but not too much. When I'm done, your hair reaches the base of your neck instead of your shoulders. It doesn't look so bad. At least it’s more regular now. You run a hand on the nape of your neck, pleased.

“Could you do this for me too?” I ask. Being short-haired is great but it grows back so fast; I did it myself two months ago and it’s already bothering me.

“I've... never done that.”

“Just cut until it's short enough. I don't mind if it's messy. It'll grow back.”

You make a face but return the favor anyway. After you're done, I take a look at my head in the pocket mirror. Hey, it's actually nice! “You should've been a hairdresser, you know that?” I laugh.

“Maybe one day, who knows?” Your gaze is filled with shy cheerfulness and even a little glint of pride.

 

During the past few nights, it’s been too cold to spend our watches apart from each other. So instead of staying in the shelter while the other guards the camp, we’ve moved the fire closer to the entrance so we can huddle under the sleeping bag and keep warmth at the same time.

Something happened during one of those nights that made me question even more the unclear, ambiguous nature of our relationship. I know, at this point, you must be thinking I was a goddamn idiot for ignoring all those very explicit signs of our mutual, irresistible attraction. Truth is, I’ve always been bad at noticing the obvious when it comes to relationships—to the point I wasn’t even able to acknowledge what was arising right under my nose.

It’s only the middle of your watch when I open a sleepy eye, shivering under an icy wind gust. To my surprise, you’re drowsing against me, your cheek resting on my head. It’s the first time you can’t manage to stay awake during a night watch; I could wake you up but something tells me you need it. And for once, we could grab some sleep together—it’s been so long. Just one time, let’s allow ourselves to lower our guard and enjoy the moment. Sighing happily, I snuggle down into your embrace and bury my face in your chest to escape the cold.

That’s when I notice my hand accidentally lifted your hoodie and your tee in my sleep, coming in contact with your skin under.

I freeze with a sharp inspiration. I fell asleep with one hand on your waist, like I already did so many times, but that’s, it’s… different. It’s so warm. An enticing furnace beneath my palm, moving back and forth with your slow breath—and I lean into it like a moth attracted to a flame. I can hardly describe how it’s making me feel. I couldn’t remember the last time I touched someone like that. Now, thanks to you, I know what it’s like again, and I’ve missed it so much, and I want _more_ of it.

But it’s a damn bad idea.

You haven’t noticed, it seems, to my relief. I remove my hand slowly, trying not to think too much about the smooth, firm sensation of your lower belly muscles under my fingers. I let it rest on your hip. That way, it won’t look suspicious—at least, it won’t be unusual.

An unintelligible moan that sounds a lot like a complain; you grab my hand with clumsy fingers and put it back where it was before letting out a satisfied sigh in my hair. My fingers now brush the edge of your boxer shorts. Good god.

It’s not as embarrassing as that time you had a boner against me in your sleep but hell, it’ll be fucking hard to go back to sleep knowing what you just did. You may be half-asleep, but it’s something you _want_ , something you’re actively asking for, something you’re enjoying. Perhaps as much as I do. On a whim, I begin to stroke your stomach with my thumb, following your heartbeat in a slow, light rhythm that lull us both to a deep slumber after a few minutes.

But you wake up with a jolt a couple hours later, startled by an excruciating nightmare that triggers primal screams of terror. Unable to recognize what’s real and what’s not, begging the ghosts of your past in several languages. _What on earth can cause so much pain?_ I think, helpless. I have to call your name a dozen times before you finally settle down, sobbing and covered in cold sweat.

In the dark I can’t see your eyes, nor your face, but I can hear your desperate gasps, and since we’re so close, I can feel in my bones the awful way your entire body quivers. You don’t tell me what you’ve relived in your dreams, and I don’t ask; such things aren’t made to be voiced out loud. For now, a compassionate hand on the nape of your neck and soft words are enough to ground you back into the present.

That’s how it is. Our days and nights are either made of soft moments together or terrorizing assaults from your mind. Sometimes both, like that night. While it seems like your past is finally drifting away from you and you can start looking up to the future at last, it’s very slow, and you go through many relapses over the weeks. I do all I can to lessen the damages it does on you. Long ago, I made a promise to myself: I gotta stand by your side through good and bad times, no matter what happens.

  
——

 When did we finally come to terms with the feelings that had been consuming us for weeks, even months? I can't remember the exact day, the exact moment it changed. I just know we were lying next to each other in the shelter right after dinner, and we started having that conversation and... I can't even say something _changed_ , to be honest, cause it feels like it was an obvious consequence of what was slowly building itself since the first days.  It was a very odd situation, for sure, with its blurred limits and casual intimacy.

So that moment… It triggered a new shift in our relationship, and yet, everything kept going like it had been the whole time. We were already so in love with each other, hell, we even both said it out loud long before that time. To be fair, we were kind of living like long-time partners, hovering around the border of _together_ and _not together_ ; except we never questioned the other about it. Shyness or fear, what was the reason stopping us? In my case, I’m pretty sure it was plain but deep-seated cowardice. Keeping my feelings at bay was harder every day, the situation was stagnating and it felt like an agony. But I couldn’t allow myself to risk losing your trust by overstepping your boundaries and make a fool of myself.

In the end, though, I did make a fool of myself anyway.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It still feels like it _was_ yesterday, even now, almost two years later. We were settled comfortably under our shelter after dinner. You were lying on your back and I was on my side, leaning on my elbow, my cheek resting in my palm. Staring at you with dreamy eyes while you were telling me some memories of your distant youth.

“And we’d spend the whole summer chilling out at his ma's place. It was tiny but he had his own room. I can recall, I think... The way afternoon sun radiated in faint rays through the curtains, on his hair... I used to lie down on his old bed, reading a book, while he was drawing on the floor. Sometimes I'd read out loud a funny passage and he'd laugh, saying I was a dumb jerk.”

I keep staring at you as you speak. You have that fond, thoughtful smile that appears every time you talk about your friend. It's beautiful.

“That memory, it seems very peaceful,” I comment.

“It is. We were like, fifteen? I'm not sure. We didn't have much but we had each other, at least. It was enough.” I know that feeling. You sigh, moving on your side to face me. “Sometimes you remind me of him. Steve.”

“Can I take that as a compliment?” You nod. “Come on… Have you seen him now? I'm no hero. I'm nothing like him!”

“It's just the way you speak to me, how you always call me Buck when you're being serious—how you worry about me. All the damn time.”

I had never figured you had noticed it. Worrying about your well-being is the least I can do. I can't help it, and I hope it's not bothering you.

“Did you love him?” I blurt out, regretting it immediately.

You don’t even hesitate: “Yes.”

“I mean—did you _love_ him? Like... you know.”

“A lover?” You shake your head. I hate to say it, but I'm a little bit relieved. I shouldn't. It's mean as fuck. “Not like that,” you add. “I guess I could have, if we had lived during your era... But that's not how it was back then. We didn't even think about it, as far as I can tell.”

“People loving the same gender always existed,” I say.

“I know. It was the kind of thing you would hide at all cost. You could be killed or worse.”

“So... you never had any male partners? Even just for sex?”

The troubling way you've been physically close to me since we met tells quite the contrary, to be honest. You're not afraid of touching me even if I look a lot like a man most of the time. And when I tell you about the present, you never seemed shocked by the fact same-sex couples are a common thing nowadays. So I want to know. I need to.

You're looking down, a mild, almost smug smile on your lips. “Well I think I did,” you say slowly. “A few time, maybe?” The memory seems faint; it’s enough for me. I'm finding myself very interested all of a sudden.

“Oh. Did you like it?”

“Quite. Never had sex with people who could be both, though.”

Okay, now I'm blushing. My clothes feel too tight as my breath hitches in my lungs. I run my hand on your torso, unable to resist the urge; I want to slide it under your shirt and feel every inch of your smooth, warm skin.

“Would you want to?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” you reply with a low voice that reverberates through my hand. “I told you, I never tried.”

Bucky, _Bucky_. You're killing me right now. I can't believe we're having that conversation. You're looking at me through your eyelashes, they cast a fluttering shadow on your cheekbones. Your gaze seems even more intense than usual. What are you suggesting with your words? Am I imagining things?

“What about you? Had some partners?” You ask, head tilted on the side. Your hair brushes my shoulder—an acute, overwhelming touch.

“Oh, yeah. When I was younger. I was such an idiot back then, I went with a lot of people. Having one-night stands and stuff. I even stayed with a girl for a year or two but she dumped me when she learned about my... abilities.”

Which is why I chose to tell you the truth as soon as possible. I didn’t want you to find out I was a freak after too much time, after starting to like each other.

“Well she was the idiot, not you.” Your lips curve in an annoyed pout. God, I could kiss them right now if it wasn’t for my self-control.

“I know, right? Anyway, it was long ago. I’ve been on my own most of the time.”

You're playing with my hair now. Sending exquisite shivers all along my back. “How long since your last partner?”

“Five years, maybe. No sex since. It's a long time, heh?”

“You miss it?”

“I never really thought about it.” Now I do. Everyday. Everytime I sleep in your arms. But we're friends. _Friends._

Friends who are currently cuddling together, hips dangerously close to each other's, legs intertwined. If I was sure you want it too—fuck, I'm flushing so much it feels like my skin's on fire. I’m quivering; I can hardly contain myself.

“Do you prefer women or men?”

I bite down on my lower lip. Why do you ask all these questions?

“Women, without a doubt. They're more... reliable, I guess. But I wouldn't refuse a fine looking guy if he's gentle and kind.” You smile a little more. Yes mate, just like you. My hand, which was still caressing your chest, stops on your heart. Dammit; it's racing too. Catching my breath, I realize that maybe, just maybe, it's not my wild imagination.

Fuck it.

I lean over you and give a clumsy peck at the corner of your mouth. That's how we've been saying goodnight to each other's every evening for a few weeks—in a friendly way. You'll either think I want to sleep or I want more.

And as usual, you read in me like an open book.

Before my mouth can quit your jaw, you turn your head and, for the very first time, your lips touch mine. Deliberately. I freeze, unsure. “Bucky...?”

Your voice, your gaze, your whole body convey your determination when you answer: “Yeah.”

Holy, fucking shit. Slack-jawed, I’m melting from the inside, and your breath is hot on me, burning, I can feel it on my tongue. I give you a small, shy kiss, just to test your reaction. Your lips are even softer than I thought, how is that possible? You have a faint, low moan. That's a good sign, right?

“Again,” you whisper. Well, I’m not gonna refuse that. Your answer, the second time, makes me feel lightheaded, I can barely feel my legs anymore. Oh god. I must be dreaming. That whole situation looks so surreal.

“Don’t stop. Please,” you beg, eyes half-closed. Of course. Anything you want, sweetheart. Your not-so-cold left hand rests on my cheek and the right is on my hips, holding me against you, as we kiss and kiss and kiss again, every time a little hungrier and I want it to never stop; we don't break the embrace until we fall asleep in each other's arms, exhausted, blissful.

 

It’s been hella long, but I can admit it now: I've missed it so much. I thought I didn’t need anyone else’s affection. I was blatantly lying to myself. I was in fact craving that level of intimacy with another—with you, because I never ever had that before, not like that, not that good.

 

In the dawn, I'm lying on my back and your head is on my chest, left arm across my waist, stroking my side with your fingertips. The fire is dying at our feet, though we don’t really feel the cold. We don’t speak about what happened last night, but when I eventually sit up, yawning, you greet me with a longing kiss that left us both pantless. Your breath draws tiny streams in the freezing air.

“'Morning,” you mumble against my mouth. I answer you by another one, slower, that makes you hum in pleasure.

And that’s it.

The rest of the day is spent the usual way. A quick breakfast, heating water on the fire to get clean—and while we’re far more intimate all of a sudden, you get back in the shelter to give me privacy, and I do the same when it’s your turn—walking around the area, gathering stuff and making sure no human being has come too close from our place. I can count on the help of my raven friends for that, which makes things far more easier.

To my surprise, you act like nothing has changed between us—but to me, everything is different now. We kissed like… lovers, for fuck’s sake! Yet you don’t say anything about it, and I wanna know what you think, how it makes you feel, if we’re taking the right path, and it’s so frustrating I’m convinced I’m gonna go crazy by the end of the day.

But you keep your lips tight except when you’re covering my mouth with yours, unaware of the quiet turmoil you’re causing to me. The night ends exactly as the previous one; it costs my entire will to break the tender embrace and pretend I need to sleep while I’m being that restless.

It keeps going like that for three more days, and everytime it happens I tell myself I’m gonna ask you about it; everytime, I find myself at a loss for words, drowned in the ocean of my own desires. If I mention it, it will break the spell, and I’ll lose what you’re offering me, and I’ll destroy the inexplicable bond we’re nurturing.

And it’d be worse than everything. _He doesn’t love me that way_ , I keep telling myself in a vain attempt to untangle the knot in my stomach.

As I said: a goddamn fool.

 

On the fourth day, we’re fishing in the lake for tonight. I can’t focus on what I’m doing and my preys keep slipping out of my clumsy hands. After yet another fail, I give an angry kick to the trap and I slump in the snow with a loud growl, frustrated to the bone.

“Hey,” you call, worried, letting go of the trout you had managed to catch in your left hand. The fish swims away from the trap, thrilled, and it disappears in the dark water. Asshole. “What’s going on?”

I can’t take it anymore. “Bucky. We gotta talk. Please,” I beg, on the verge of tears.

“About what?” You ask, a spark of confusion dashing through your face. Dammit, you’re not even faking it. You sit down in front of me, taking my coarse, red hands in yours. I hadn’t even noticed the cold water of the lake had been hurting them like that.

“About us. About what we’re doing. Together,” I confess, my cheeks burning from embarrassment.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But... You’re aware we’ve been, uh... Kissing a lot lately, right?”

“Oh.” You bite down on your lower lip, eyes on the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was making you feel uncomfortable.”

“And it’s not, I love it but heaven, Buck! I have to know. I can’t keep going like that another single day. I don’t want to harm you without knowing it, and I feel like I’m taking advantage of you everytime we—” Before I can finish my sentence, you silence me with a deep kiss. To your disappointment, I groan and pull away, resting my forehead on yours. “Please, I’m being serious.

“I thought it had been obvious,” you say in a faltering voice. “For a long time.”

“What?” I breathe out.

“I thought I was being clear about my feelings, but you didn’t say anything, so…”

“Why didn’t you told me?” I’m baffled. “I didn’t know… I was sure you weren’t even aware of it.” How could I be so clueless? It’s been going on like that for months and every time I had a doubt, I convinced myself it was just a coincidence, just an accident, just an innocent little thing that made you feel better.

You sigh, eyebrows raised. “I told myself that, if I kept acting as usual, we could pretend it wasn’t that much of a big deal.” Fidgeting with the hair on the nape of my neck, you lick your lips before adding: “But truth is… It _is_ a big deal, uh?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice blank. “Yeah, it is.”

“I—” you start, unsure, “I wanna be with you, Jules. Make you feel good. I wanna feel good things with you because I love you.”

And you deserve to feel those good things, more than anyone else; I’m not sure I’m able to give you that, though.

But I can give a try anyway.

“Me too, I want that too,” I breathe, flushed. I can’t believe I’ve just said it. “But… What are we now, uh? Friends, lovers?” All this is awesome—a fucking miracle—though I need certainty. A confirmation. This isn’t a goddamn game, and I’m not gonna toy with your feelings. “Tell me, please?” I ask.

You cup my head in your hand. “I have no idea. Does it really matter?”

“No.” I shrug. “But I need to be sure.”

“How about... partners, then?”

“I like that.” It sounds right. It makes my soul warm.

“What I feel, I… I don't even have words for it,” you admit, sighing and staring at me like I'm some mirage. Don't worry, I’m not gonna fade away before your eyes.

“How long have you been feeling… that?”

You don't answer immediately, thoughtful. I guess it's just like me then: the exact moment you started to feel things is unclear. It was progressing at a slow pace.

“I think it was, uh—when I started having trouble sleeping, not because of nightmares, but because I could feel you lying against me. And it did things to me, you see? Hadn’t felt that in decades.”

“You couldn’t sleep because of _me_?”

“It was nice. Frustrating. And then I became conscious of every second we weren’t touching each other. I couldn’t focus on anything, not even on staying safe, my attention was drawn to you all the time. But I didn't know what you were thinking.”

“I was dying for it, literally. Shit… Buck, we were both stupid, slow burning for each other like that.” I laugh. Nervosity hasn’t loosened its grip on me yet. “I wouldn't have tried anything, though, I was afraid I’d make you uncomfortable. Unsafe. I thought you had more important things to deal with. With all that stuff in your head… Your mental health was at stake, I couldn’t risk messing it up even more.”

The corner of your mouth twitches and your thumb brushes my lips. “Doesn't mean I can't, you know—love.”

“Hm. You’re right.”

In the end, that was probably the only thing still connecting you to your humanity. Love is what makes us more than cold machines, even when everything is stripped from us until there's nothing left except pain and terror.

Your innate ability to love—with your entire soul, because that’s just how you are, Buck—is what allowed you to hold on most of the time, I think. To start healing from your past, if that's ever possible. Your heart could’ve been filled with hatred and darkness after what you’ve been through, and it would’ve been right, because your tormentors deserve to burn in hell—but it settled for love instead. It says a lot about the kind of man you are.

“But how do you feel now, really?” I ask.

“Some days are bad but others... are much better. Less nightmares, too.”

“You're very different from when we met, four months ago. To be fair, when you told me your story, you could barely speak a word, and I was sure you'd never start to recover. Such horrors can't be defeated, not even by someone like him, I thought. But I should've known better about you. And look at yourself now.” It’s been what, seven months since you escaped? Now you can smile and laugh and I've never seen something so hopeful in my whole lifetime.

“That's only because you're here with me,” you say.

“No way!” I pinch your arm, teasing.

“I'm being serious. You're helping me a lot.”

“I haven't done anything, c’mon.” I don't want that, I don't want to be that person you rely on for everything. That would be bad for you, trust me. “Bucky, don't underestimate yourself; you did all this by yourself. Every single step leading you to today and tomorrow. Me? I'm just a supportive presence. A hand on your shoulder, if you want. And I'll keep it that way, as long as you want me in your life.”

You make a face, pouting, and I kiss you before you can say what I don’t want to hear. No, don’t you dare saying that, I didn't save you, it’s bullshit. I can't possibly do that and I'm not some kind of freaking savior anyway. To see me that way is very unhealthy. It makes you... dependent. Handled like a tool for so many years, now that you’re free, you must be able to live on your own at all cost.

It doesn't mean having to be all alone, however.

“Now, why don’t we go back to the camp? So much for the fish. My ass is freezing over,” I say. The snow has started to melt under me, soaking my trousers and my underwear.

“Well I can certainly help with that.” The hint of a grin brightens your features.

 

That day ends in a strange atmosphere. Almost like a dream. I feel like the sky is clearing after a violent storm and I can finally see the path ahead of me. We’ll walk it down together, hand in hand, and I know that's exactly where I'm supposed to be now.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit sexual content in the middle of the chapter.

_Around a lake, North Carolina, February 2015_

 

"So you can turn into cats, dogs, ravens, wolves, hawks and... what else already?"

"Don't get me started, it will take all day," I laugh. "I’ve lost the count anyway."

We're walking along the lake's border. I've spent half the day teaching you how to recognize tracks; with all that snow, it's easy.

"Can you become a fly?" You ask out of the blue.

"What? Why the hell would I wanna be a fly?"

"Why not?"

"’Cause that would suck! No, I can't. I can't turn into bugs."

"And fishes?"

"Nope. Only mammals, birds and reptiles."

"Weird... Why such limits?"

You're being very talkative today—the much welcomed result of a calm night and a sunny weather. The trees are covered in frost; a light, golden mist stagnates between the trunks. Such days aren't common, and they're always a pure delight.

"I don't know,” I shrug. “I guess that's because we're pretty similar. Invertebrates, amphibians and fishes are much less related to us, evolutionary speaking."

I used to love biology classes at school but most of the knowledge has faded away from my brain now, so maybe that's utter nonsense. The truth is, I don't know shit about the way I work. I just... do things. It's enough for me, and it has never failed me before.

"I'd love to see all your shapes,” you tell me with the hint of a smile.

"That would take so long,” I whine. "And I'd be very tired after a short while. That shit is exhausting.” What I don’t mention is that it might be dangerous. If I decided to shift without interruption for a long time, I’d probably forget I’m a human being above all. I might get stuck as a deer, as a lizard, anything, for the rest of my life.

"That's why you eat so much after shapeshifting?”

"Yeah... gotta compensate.” I pat my tummy and you let out an amused chuckle. It warms my heart; I'd do anything to hear that sound.

"That must’ve been strange, when you found out about your abilities.”

"I can't really recall it. I was like, a toddler, and I was with my mom at her friend's house... and I petted the cat while I was playing in the backyard. Guess what happened.”

"Dammit.”

"I can't remember how it felt, though. No one saw me, by chance, but when we got back home the first thing I did was to show it to my mother. She freaked out, of course, and after that she told me to never do it in front of anyone else."

I realize I've stopped walking. I turn to face the lake. On the right, a small island; a blue heron is fishing, patient. Peaceful. You join me, your shoulder brushing against mine. "It was hard?"

"Yeah... I was just a kid, I couldn't really hold it. I guess she wanted to protect from my father, but he found out anyway shortly after." You frown. I hear a low, muffled whirring sound as your left arm slides around my waist in a protective gesture—just like I do when you tell me about a painful memory. You're no longer afraid of touching me with your prosthesis, at least not as much as you used to be. "And when I grew up, I started to feel like it was part of me. Repressing it would've been... unnatural."

"I see."

We start walking again. “At night, I used to sneak out of the house to wander around. Locking my door wasn’t useful, because I could turn into a rat and pass through my room’s air vent, and when he sealed the air vent, I became a bear and tore it off, with a good part of the wall. I got grounded so bad after that,” I snort with a wolfish grin.

You gasp, impressed. “A bear?”

“Yeah, man.” With you, it’s the first time I can tell about my skills without being judged, scorned or worse. An unexpected sense of pride has replaced the old shame of disclosing myself to others.

“And whales? Can you be a whale too?” You ask.

“Oh no! Whales are scary.” I make a face.

“How can they be scarier than a goddamn cougar?”

“First of all, they’re big. Huge. And they’re also… so much more than us. They know so many things we have no idea of. We’re nothing compared to them.”

A pensive silence follows my explanations. The endless world of wildlife remains a mystery to many people, including myself. I may be able to borrow dozens of different shapes, I’ll never be able to understand it fully.

On the lake, the blue heron stretches its large wings, a wriggling fish in its beak. It takes flight in a gracious move, and we both peer at it while it vanishes above the trees to an unknown destination.

 

——

 

I'll never forget the evening you gave me the highest proof of your trust in me. I didn't need that, really, I already knew, and it was more than enough. But you handed me that damn piece of paper, taken from your notebook, regardless of what I could be thinking.

“What is it?” I ask, wary. Your grave, livid face tells me this isn’t a love letter or something.

“My trigger words.” I open it. There are ten words, written in Cyrillic letters, with the phonetic translation next to them. “Learn it. I'll help you with the pronunciation. If anything bad happens, I want you to say them out loud before they can do it themselves.” You explain it with a blank voice, like it's nothing important.

“What does it do?”

“Activates me. Makes me your weapon.”

No. _No_. In that moment, I swear I'm about to throw that cursed paper in the fire. Or shove it down your throat—I haven’t decided yet.

“Are you mad?! I'll never do such a thing,” I stammer, horrified. “I'll never do that to you, Buck.”

“You'll have to. I'll obey you and you only. Better than complying to them.”

_What the hell?_ How can you tell me such a thing? Don’t you know how much I love you, for fuck’s sake?

“I can't. I... You're not my—my thing,” I protest, a little too weakly in my opinion. I lean against you, clutching at your arms, creasing the paper in my hand because I'm trembling as hell.

“I trust you. I know you'd never use me in bad ways,” you assure me. Which makes things even worse.

“I'll never use you, period.”

“We may not have a choice, Jules. If they don't kill me first, they'll try to take me back under control. And they'll make me kill you right after. And I'll do it without even blinking.” There’s despair in your voice as you speak that dreadful truth.

You're right. Shit, you're right. But it's unfair. _You're_ being unfair, putting such a weight on my shoulders. I don't want to know this information. That's too much! You have no right to force me to do that. Why are you doing that to me? My thoughts are racing, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I can’t even say I’m angry at you, you know. You have your reasons, and in a way, you’re right. It’s a safety net. So...

For you, I'll do it. For you, I'll become your worst enemy if necessary. And it breaks my heart, and I hate myself for making that terrible decision, for giving in to your request. I look down at the piece of paper, devastated. These fucking words. It's enough to destroy every single part of yourself, to annihilate all the hard work you've done to recover so far. If only we could get them out of your head.

I realize I'm crying when a large teardrop hits the paper, almost smudging your delicate handwriting. I wipe my eyes and glance up at you. You don't look any better. It's wrecking you just to think about the outcomes of that decision, I'm sure.

“Even if you never use them, keep it with you,” you suggest in a hesitant whisper. “In a safe place no one knows except you and I.”

“You're aware it's the worst idea you ever had?” I ask, wry. You manage to produce a faint smile and you take my hand, squeezing tightly. “What if I betray you?”

“Come on, I know you won’t.”

“Let me rephrase: what if _they_ make me betray you?”

You look away, your lips sealed in a thin line. So you don’t know either—great.

We spent the rest of the evening working on the words, making sure I never repeat them in the right order so it won't do you any harm. Even when I wanna stop, you insist, because it needs to be deeply ingrained into my head with the right pronunciation, while I’m about to puke every time I utter one of them. You say that I should learn some Russian too, even if you understand English when you're under control, that it could be useful, just in case.

Me? I already hate that damn language.

 ——

 

Spring is in the air. I can feel it all around, just like the rest of the wildlife. American robins have started singing at dawn—and what a gentle way to be woken up every morning. I’ve seen black bears the other day when I was hunting, a mother with two cubs who had just left hibernation. Daytime is getting longer, and nights are warmer and more humid. It won’t be long until the snow cover starts melting, and so will our shelter.

 

So. Here we are. I shouldn't be writing this in full details but hey, who's gonna read it anyway, except you and I? And I’m sure you’ll love to be reminded of that first time we made love. Or perhaps you’ll feel embarrassed; though we both know there’s no shame in that.

It happened a week or two after we confessed our love to each other. At I said before, at first things didn't change that much: kissing, making out, maybe soft touching over our clothes. Nothing more, because I was sure you needed time before thinking about anything else. I also told myself you’d never want more—I was fine with that, too. But it went further, and way quicker than I expected.

Months later, you’ll tell me you wanted, needed to prove yourself you were capable of doing it. That you were able to trust again, to do nice things with your body instead of letting it remind you of what you were turned into—a killing machine.

The moment you start sucking at my lower lip, exploring it with the tip of your tongue, I let out a loud, longing moan, squirming under a rush of lust. You stop right away. “Did I hurt you?”

“Hell no,” I say, panting. “It's so good.” You chuckle and do it again, hesitant, and so soft. Like you're not sure about how to do it or you're afraid you’ll do something wrong.

I run my hand to the bottom border of your shirt and I lift it slightly. “Can I?” You nod with an alluring smile. Carefully removing the first button, I slide my fingers on your stomach, moving up to your chest. _Oh god_ , I think as another wave of desire strikes me _._ This isn’t like the other night, not at all. You're breathing fast; I freeze, hand hovering above your skin.

“If I do anything that makes you uneasy or scared or any other unpleasant feeling... Just tell me. With words or gestures. I won't be mad.” I must be very careful, or I’ll do more harm than good.

“Thank you. But I'm fine.”

“I'm not joking. I only want you to feel good, Buck.”

You shiver, letting out a nervous laugh. “I know,” you say, smiling fondly. “Please keep going. I like it.”

I open another button and lean down to lay soft kisses on your belly, right above your navel, my fingers running on your skin until they reach your chest at last and start wandering around your nipples. You're slowly writhing under my touch, humming like you don't have enough yet. _Holy shit, he actually enjoys what I’m doing_ , I realize with a mix of fear and thirst.

My hand accidentally brushes patches of scarred skin, near your left shoulder. It's worse than I thought it was. “Is it painful?”

“Sometimes. You can touch it. If you want.”

I wish I could soothe it for you, do something, whatever is needed. On an impulse, I open the rest of your shirt to run my lips and my tongue along the quite gruesome line where flesh meets metal. Cold and warm at the same time. I can't see much under the fire's light, but it seems like the plates are riveted deep under your skin. How much of your body has been replaced by those cruel artificial parts?

You told me, once, that you see your prosthesis as a burden, a constant reminder of being submitted to your handlers’ will. Grafted onto your body, it will never cease to bother you. There’s nothing I can do to take that pain away. But maybe...

“Touch me. With you left hand.” I whisper in your ear.

Your breathing hitches. “Really?”

“Yes. Touch me where you want and tell me what it’s like.”

I lie down on my back so you can bend over me. Damn, right now I just want you to cover my body, with your hips grinding against mine and your cock pushing inside me until I forget where I end and where you start. But it's not time. Not yet.

I remove your shirt, freeing your arm in the process, just to admire your upper body. It’s the first time I can see it like that. And heaven, you’re definitely gorgeous. You're the most ravishing person I've ever had the chance to witness.

At first, you’re being shy—not even allowing your fingers to hover above me, so I take your hand and slowly guide it under my hoodie.

Fucking mistake. “Oh shit, so cold!” I jump under your touch.

“My bad, I should've warned you,” you apologize and you remove it, but I notice you can barely contain your laughter. My stomach squeezes. You're having _fun._

“Actually, it wasn't that unpleasant. Quite the contrary.” I take your hand again and put it back where I want it, stiffening all my muscles. Fortunately, metal gets warmer fast. Your fingertips caress my tummy and I close my eyes. “So? What do you feel?”

You take your time to touch and experience as much as you can. “Warm. Smooth. Goosebumps? And… oh, muscles.” You apply a little more pressure with your palm; I sigh with pleasure.

“It’s nothing compared to you,” I joke. My hands are on your torso again. We explore each other for a while, our gazes locked on our moves. Your fingers keep ending on the upper part of my flat chest.

“Want me to shapeshift? I can be whatever gender you want me to,” I propose.

“Show me,” you reply. I take a full man shape first, and it doesn’t do anything to my torso, of course, except that my hips are a little bit narrower now. Then I turn into a woman under your hands, and while you can’t see it yet, you smile, chuckling: “It’s not _that_ different. You face didn’t even change.”

“I know… I’m still me, you see.”

“You do it in the blink of an eye,” you comment. In fact, I don’t know what it looks like from the outside. “One moment, you’re there, and the next—I couldn’t see the exact moment you shapeshifted. This is impressive.”

“And how convenient, heh? So, which one do you prefer?”

“Just be yourself,” you say with a firm nod despite the spark of want I can see in your eyes. I never did that during intimate moments. I'm not sure I'd like it.

“Both, then,” I decide. “For now.” That’s my most natural shape, what I am deep down.

“Both... everywhere?” There's a glimpse of mischief on your features.

“Find it out yourself,” I reply, daring you to give a try. I take a quick look down at my hips. You bite down on your lower lip, doubtful. “We don't have to do this if you're not sure, Buck,” I tell you, a hand on your wrist. It’s probably too soon.

“No, I'd like to.” You shake your head, chasing away your hesitations. “But... what if I do wrong things?”

“You've been so gentle until now, why would that change?”

“I don't know... I can't trust myself.”

“Yes you can, sweetheart. And I can guide you if you want.”

You whisper a soft “yeah, please” and I take your right hand in mine, pushing it between my legs. Holy shit. I take a deep breath, lifting my hips to rub them against your palm. You're getting me so hard.

“Hm. I must say, it feels just like me,” you comment.

“Wait.” I open my trousers and lift up the edge of my underwear. “Here.” Hot and teasing, your hand wanders a little on my cock, stealing a few more delighted sounds from my mouth, before it ventures further, wavering.

“Oh. Now I see.”

“I hope you're not disgusted. I can still shift if that's better for you—”

“No.” You shut my mouth with an intense kiss. The tip of your tongue fluttering on my lips, your teeth gently grazing mine. “It's perfect.”

I close my eyes to enjoy the moment, the sweet pressure of your fingers, your hot breath in my ear. I can't believe it—you’re accepting me as I am. It's too beautiful to be true.

“Jules?”

“Yes, Bucky?”

“What do you feel?” You look so worried all of a sudden, so I smile at you and take your head in my hands, kissing your hair, your forehead, your cheekbones.

“It's good. You certainly know how to please someone, right?”

“I think it’s muscle memory.” A slow stroke; you’re perfectly aware of what you’re doing to me. No, it’s certainly not just muscle memory. A little grunt escapes from my mouth. You’re driving me mad. “Should I stop?”

“For the love of god, no,” I manage to say. “Wait, let me—” I remove my hoodie as fast as possible. That makes you stop moving and gape down at my chest, eyebrows raised. I tilt my head. “What’s wrong?” To my disappointment, you remove your fingers to drag your hand up my waist. It leaves a wet, almost obscene trail on my skin.

“All these tattoos—”

“What? I thought you'd seen them before.”

“The birds on your forearms, yes.” You take my hands to examine my wrists closely. “And the snake on your neck and collarbone. Not all the others animals.”

“Huh. Even when I washed myself next to you?” I ask, doubtful.

“I tried not to look at you. It wasn't easy.” You laugh and run a finger on the twin wolves running towards each other on my chest, right beneath the snakes. “Do they mean something?”

“They're... me, basically. All the shapes I can take so far. Wanna see the others?”

You take your time to touch each one. Under the faint bonfire light, your paler skin offers a deep, lovely contrast on mine.

“Wait, I have more on my legs. Can you remove my jeans?” You do so and, while you’re at it, you take my underwear away with them. Naked for the first time under your intense, adoring gaze, I’m going hard again.

“You have scars, too,” you say with a frown.

“Quite... The one on the back of my neck, you’ve seen it before?” You nod. “I got it from a fight with a wolf in the forests of Minnesota. He tried to steal my prey, that asshole. And he won! I also got shot near my kidney because of a stupid hunter—I almost died that day. And that big one on my ankle, you can't really see it because I've got it covered with ink, it was from a fucking trap. It's a mess.”

“And that one?” You ask, touching my forehead. I have a small scar just above my right eyebrow.

“Oh, that one? I bumped my head on a street lamp pole when I was twelve.” You don’t say anything, eyebrows raised, so I add: “I was running like a fool because I was late for the schoolbus and I noticed it a little too late.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, I swear! It hurt so bad.”

You finally laugh out loud. “I've never seen someone like you,” you tell me, giggling.

I huff an amused breath. “ _I’ve_ never seen someone like _you,_ ” I repeat, poking your ribs. “Come on, if it wasn’t for my ability to shapeshift and to be a huge dumbass at the same time, I’d be the usual guy... Really. Don't wanna be anything else.”

“Well to me, you're very special. Can I kiss you?”

'Course you can. I grab your shoulders and pull you against me, kissing you hard, kissing you deep; eventually, we fall down on our sides, clinging to each other like we've got nothing else in the world.

Over the course of the past few months, I’ve been revealing myself entirely, both mind and body. It's hard to come to terms with it. Never did that for anyone else than you—each time before, I had to hide something in order to protect myself. In that moment, I really hope you'll never take advantage of it.

Spoilers: hell no, you won't. You're too kind for that. The best person ever. You deserve the whole world; I can only give you my love and trust, as insignificant as they might be.

It's rather unfair that I'm the only one who's naked, though, so I start pulling at your jeans with my trembling fingers, without stopping the kiss. You make a humming sound and split from me.

“Wait,” you mumble, unzipping your trousers. “Let me.” You remove what's left of your clothes in a second, and I catch my breath, feeling all weak in the knees. Damn, there’s no words.

With my legs now spread around your waist, our hips stuck together, I trace your jawline with my mouth. You sigh, whispering my name—that sensual voice of yours makes my cock twitch against yours. I move down and start exploring your throat and your collarbone, end up on you left shoulder one more time, then on the right. I feel like I’m going mad.

Your hands are brushing my inner thighs. We take our time to get acquainted with every curves, every inch of skin. As I let my fingers wander between your legs, your entire body gets a strong thrill and I pull my hand back as if I just got burned. “Fuck, you okay? Want me to stop?”

“No, I'm good. Feels good.” You smile, kissing the tip of my nose. You look down at my crotch, licking your lips; your craving expression is more than enough to turn me on like never. “It’s really like you took a little bit of both genders,” you say softly.

“I know, right? It's weird but I kinda like it now. Wouldn't trade that body for another one. I mean, it has so many possibilities.” I wink at you, grinning.

“I want to know everything about you, love.” You say suddenly.

“Anything you want. But later, ‘cause it will take long. Now... What do you want me to do?”

“Can you touch me again?”

“I was about to ask you the same.” I grin, lifting an eyebrow.

And suddenly your right hand is stroking me slowly, gently, and I gasp and curl my fingers around your cock too, teasing the tip with my thumb, and we moan into each other's mouth for a few moments until our kisses become rougher and wilder and I can't help but come between your fingers—damn it, it was too short but you're so good at it. Lightheaded, I'm shaking and I can barely breathe.

“Sorry,” I stutter, shaken by the unexpected pleasure rush. “Couldn't wait any longer.” Judging by your feverish look, you're close as well. “You. Inside me. Do you want to?” I'm still hungry—there's no other word for what I’m feeling, really.

“You sure?” You ask in a low voice.

“Never been so sure. Just go slow, been a while for me. And I’m not very deep so…” You give me a inquisitive look, but I shrug, smiling. I’ll definitely tell you about all that later.

I spread my legs a little more, guiding you with my hand. Your hips give a cautious, slow push. Another. And another, until the tip of your cock goes past my entrance and my heart misses a beat. You're shivering and gasping, your eyes on me, wide open like you can't believe what's happening. Me too, mate, me too. _Maybe it’s too much for him_ , I think. But you cup my face in your hand and kiss me again, sighing with contentment.

Once you're settled as far as you can without hurting me, you stop, your arms locked around my waist. Even your left hand is shaking—like you got some fever. I stroke your back, smiling.

“Pain?” You say.

“No pain. Keep going on, please.” I almost beg you.

“Just a second. I need to—” You let out a deep breath, eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering.

“It’s good?”

“Yeah. Couldn't remember how it was. Until now.” I give you a fond kiss on the forehead, right between your eyebrows. Take your time, and enjoy it.

When you're ready, you give a little thrust and it's not long before I reply to each of your moves by another one, grabbing your ass with my two hands. It's nothing fancy, really; it’s messy, clumsy, we end up giggling and teasing each other a couple of times until I start moving faster, stealing a demanding moan from your parted lips. I lift my head to reach your throat with my tongue and suck at the tender skin that awaits me there, following your rhythm and relishing in the controlled strength of your movements.

“Keep doing that and I'm gonna—” You groan. Your fingers are digging in my shoulders.

“Then do it please—Bucky, please,” I gasp against your flushed neck.

I can't tell if that's hearing your name, the teasing strokes of my tongue or all the rest that does it. Anyway, half a second later you're coming with the most ravishing noises I've ever heard and it drives me mad once and for all, so I keep calling your name in your ear again and again, holding you tight. Feeling your orgasm through my body is the best thing in the world and I’m not even exaggerating.

You take deep inspirations as the last pleasure waves vanish before you let your head fall on my torso, your damp hair cascading on your shoulders. “Did you enjoy it?” I ask, curling a wavy lock around my forefinger. I think I already know the answer.

“God, yeah. It was...” You pause, wordless, your left hand slowly brushing my collarbone. “How was it for you?”

“Insanely good. Damn, I could do this all day.” You look at me with the most baffled expression. “What?”

“Nothing. Just—oh my god.” All of a sudden, you burst out with laughter, a hand over your eyes, while I keep asking you what’s wrong. Your smile is brighter than the freaking sun.

Seeing that, I literally dive on you, my hands all over your body, realizing that fuck, it's real; I’ve found you, you’ve found me, and nothing can tear us apart now. I won't allow it.

“I don’t wanna stop,” you say between two kisses. You body doesn’t either, judging by the way you’re half-hard again.

“We don’t have to,” I reply with a cocky smile.

We share a slow, lazy embrace that lasts for maybe one more hour. I must admit I kinda lost my perception of time under all those endless minutes of bliss and pleasure. When we eventually take a break, it’s already night time.

“We should get a little wash-up.” I take a look at the sticky stains smeared everywhere on our lower bodies. “And maybe clean the bag too, shit.”

“I think I'm starting to have a headache.” You make a face, rolling on your back. Too many emotions and feelings all at once, I suppose.

“Let's rest then. We'll deal with that later.” And so much for the blankets and the sleeping bag.

 

When you wake up, the pain is gone, but you have a concerned expression. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“We've made a mistake, Jules.”

“What? But you—you told me you liked it?” I stare at you with disbelief. Please, don't tell me you regret it. That you regret us. Please.

“No, I mean, you might—”

“Have diseases? Don't worry, I got myself tested after the last time I had sex with someone. It was years ago; I'm clean.”

“Not that.” You take a deep, trembling inspiration: “You might get pregnant. ‘Cause of me.”

I frown, surprised, then I let out a chuckle. Oh, the relief.

“That's not possible,” I say, putting my hand on your shoulder to reassure you. “I don't work like that.”

“How so?”

“When I’m under my basic shape, this one. I'm sterile, as far as I know.” You stare at me in silence, confused. “Let me explain. Are you familiar with how all this works? Human reproduction and stuff?”

“I guess.” You shrug.

“It's not working for me. You see, when I'm not shapeshifting at all...” I point at my genitals. “I have a part of both. The best parts, heh? But not… everything. And as you can see, it looks uh, a little different. I’m not literally both male and female, that would be impossible.” I explain it to you in full length, struggling to describe the way my body is made. You give me a pensive look, resting your chin in your left palm. “I know, it's weird. Sorry.”

You shake your head and comfort me with a gentle kiss on the forehead. “What about when you’re shapeshifting then?”

“I can’t tell, it’s not like I ever tried to get someone pregnant, or the other way around. But… you know, the doctors who first saw me didn't believe their own eyes. Wanted to perform surgery on me, but my mom opposed to it.”

“Did they know about your abilities?”

“No, mom told me to never show them that. I was four, maybe five? I can’t remember much.  Then I was sent to see other doctors, and they already knew about the shapeshifting stuff, and… Anyway, I don't know why I'm made that way or how all of this works exactly. They never bothered to tell me... But there are other people like me. Many.”

“They can shapeshift too?”

“As far as I know, no. The twenty-first century isn't that marvelous.”

“Too bad.”

“What? One like me isn't enough for you?” I joke, gently punching you in the gut. You grab my wrist and draw me into your arms. We were supposed to clean ourselves; judging by the way your fingers dig into my thighs, it'll be for later. Again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I won't be able to update for the next few weeks because I'm going on a trip and I'm coming home the week Avengers: Endgame is getting released so... I'm pretty sure I'll be to stressed out to write a single line.


	9. Chapter 9

_Back on a trail, North Carolina, March 2015_

 

 

Once the weather gets warmer and the snow cover slowly starts melting all over the undergrowth, it's time to leave the camp. We're running out of supplies again. Since we were dwelling far away from any inhabited area, we gotta hurry up, before we run into serious trouble. Let's just hope nobody finds us this time.

With a heavy heart, we dismantle the shelter, collect the ropes we used to hold it together and everything that can still be useful, then we hide all hints we’ve been living there for a while. It’s kinda sad to destroy the place that welcomed so many tender moments between us. But it’s for the better. No need to leave blatant signs of our presence, that would be a dumb mistake.

 

We've been walking for a few hours in a thick and tricky part of the forest; time for a little break. As I climb onto a huge fallen tree to take a look around the steep landscape, a quick move on my right makes me duck down by reflex. A big snowball hits a branch next to me.

“What the—” Bewildered, I turn around to face you as you throw another snowball. This one doesn't miss—right on the head. I shiver, shaking my head to get rid of the cold, wet feeling.

Your laugh, in the quiet and peaceful valley, reverberates between the trees like the youthful echo of a wild child of the forest. Wiping the snow from my forehead, I have a wolfish grin. If it's a snow fight you want, you’re gonna get it, mate.

I jump from the tree trunk, already gathering snow in my hands. I toss it in your direction and jump behind a fir before you can aim for me again.

“You gonna regret that, _sweetheart_!” I shout, playful, just as another snowball crashes a few inches from my face.

Believe it or not, we're playing like goddamn kids. It goes on like that for maybe half an hour. In the end, we're panting and giggling and both covered in melting snow. And you know what, I haven’t had that much fun in years.

Tired of receiving balls in the face while you dodge all my shots, I run and jump at you, my legs curling around your waist. You weren't expecting that; my weight sets you off-balance and you fall on your ass in the snow with a surprised yelp.

“Admit it: I won,” I brag, poking your nose.

“Nope.” Your give a strong thrust with your hips and I roll on my back with a huff. Now you're straddling me, your metal hand locked on my chest to pin me down. “There. _I_ won.”

“No! Bucky, that's not fair!” I whine. Your other hand starts exploring my waist with sensual, teasing moves. “And that too! Asshole!”

You're giggling as your palm slips  down under my clothes, right on my ass, and I yelp, chilling both because of the cold touch and the pleasure rush it releases in me.

“C’mon, we’re not gonna fuck in the snow!” I argue—mildly. You bet I want it.

“But Jules, it’s so comfortable here,” you drawl. Your nose is buried against my neck.

I squirm, groaning. Hearing my name in your voice never ceases to make me feel funny. “Alright, but let’s get somewhere else!”

“Where then?”

“Hm.” I take a look around. “Against that tree, over there.”

“Really?”

I grin. “Really.”

 

Good days like that one are woven with those when you won't say a word at all, lost in your own mind, eyeing your left arm with horror and disbelief. I'm aware I have to be very careful during those times, because you're more than hypersensitive, and a single word, a wrong touch, anything could send you adrift. So I take care of you, brew cups of tea with dried chamomile in hope you'll get a calmer night than usual. Sometimes it works, sometimes it seems like nothing in the world could soothe you, not even my presence at your side.

Some days, on the contrary, you’ll get all cuddly and clingy, longing for physical intimacy such as today, and on rare occasions your sex drive will flare up without any reason. Not that I’m gonna complain, to be fair, but it probably has to do with your trauma interfering with your hormones levels or something, and I’d hate to take advantage of that. Still, these moments seem to please you a lot, and I make sure it stays sweet and comforting for you.

I know I can't help as much as I’d want. I wish there was a clear way; I'd do anything to make you feel better.

Maybe our snowball fight helped you a little, though. Brief but carefree moments of shared joy and silly games like today reminded you of nice parts of you past, and made you stay in the present. It's not much, but it's something. It's a step forward.

 

——

 

It's about eight in the morning and you're brushing my forearms with your fingertips. Sometimes, you'll spend hours exploring my entire body with your two hands. It's as if you're afraid you could forget how it feels at any moment.

“Look, I'm a strong as you,” I show off, flexing my left arm.

You snort. “You sure about that?”

“Wanna test it out?”

“Sorry to break your dream, but you're gonna lose.”

“Not if I turn into a bear.”

“That's... Technically, cheating,” you argue with an outraged wince.

“Mate, I'm self-taught. Both the streets and the wild don't give a fuck about cheating, and they were my only teachers so far.”

I stare at the campfire. As a wolf, as a mountain lion, even as an elk, it's easy. It comes natural. As a human, though... There are countless times I almost got stupidly killed because of an annoying lack of fighting skills.

“Teach me,” I say on a whim. “I wanna learn how to fight like you.”

You look puzzled, caught off guard, even though a very small glimpse of interest brightens your face.

“I’m not sure it’s—”

“It could be very useful. In case they're coming at us again.” I sigh. “Look, Buck, I don't want to be a burden for you. If we gotta be a team, and I hope we _are_ a team, we gotta learn to work together. Am I wrong?” You nod, slowly, weighing the pros and cons. “Also, you need to work out all these muscles, or you're gonna get all skinny before the end of the winter!” I taunt, slightly pinching your right biceps. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

 

Half a day later, after a light lunch of fried fish and late wild apples, we find a nice flat place near the camp. We're knee-deep in the snow, facing each other.

“So, what are we gonna do now?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

You hand me your knife before stepping back. “Attack me.”

“What?”

“Just do it. Attack.”

I frown, looking down at your weapon in my hand. It’s a heavy tactical knife, the kind of blade that could slice a throat in less than a second, I guess. A very tangible remnant of your past, but I’ve noticed you never keep it away from you—even when we sleep, it lies under the blanket we use as a pillow, a few inches from your hand. Holding it feels awkward, and it fills me with a sense of discomfort I can hardly describe.

“Hell no.” I shake my head. That's not how it's supposed to be. I don't wanna harm you. You said you'd teach me. But we're not really fighting, right?

“Don't be afraid! Come on,” you insist with and encouraging smile that instantly melts my hesitations.

Okay. Let's do this.

I tighten my grip around your knife and do a side jump, looking for your exposed flank. That’s how wolves taught me, but they usually aim for the throat instead.

Before I can even raise my weapon, a spark of steel flashes before my eyes; it stops me with the strength of a damn boar and I land on my ass a few feet away.

“Shit!” I gasp. “Didn't even see you coming.”

“That's what I thought. You're random. I'm sure you fight well but you're being messy. You lack control and focus. That's a weakness we should work on.” How could you guess all with just one move? You hold a hand, the same that just caught me mid-air. I grab it and stand up with a pained wince. “You okay?”

“Yeah... You've got a serious advantage, man.”

“I have flaws, too, like everyone. Let's go back to work, now. I'm gonna attack you and you'll defend yourself. We're going slow, so I'll show you the moves,” you suggest. “Alright?”

“Okay.” Now that's better. I was terrified of injuring you by accident.

After a full hour of dodging, striking back and faceplanting in the snow most of the time, I eventually start to understand your fighting patterns. They're always changing, yet there's a consistent strategy behind each of them. I can anticipate a few moves now—but only a few.

You attack once again; I do a sidestep and grab your wrist, using your own strength to push you away. You don't fall—actually, you're not even getting off balance. But you turn around and smile at me, pride sparkling in your eyes.

“Good! You're getting it. It's not about pure strength, it's about understanding your opponent's moves and using to your own benefit.” You look pretty excited now. “Let's continue,” you say, “for another hour and then we'll take a break. No need to wear you out for today.”

I know you're sparing me, and to be frank, I'm grateful. Two hours already feel like an eternity. Once we're done, my legs can barely carry me anymore. I'm probably bruised everywhere I've got skin because of all the times I fell down. But I had never felt that accomplished until today; I've made progress, as insignificant as it is. And I have the best possible teacher.

You dust the snow off a fallen log to sit down. You're barely sweating, lucky you. I drop next to you and I throw myself into your side, moaning with pain.

“So?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Feels good,” I pant. I look at you from below. Hair ruffled, a half-smile on your lips, snow powder all over your coat, you're so beautiful my heart stops beating for a second.

“We can resume tomorrow. Much more for you to learn, huh?”

“Hell yeah. Can't wait.”

That evening, when I change clothes and you discover my body with all its bruises, you put a hand on your mouth and you keep saying you're sorry again and again, even after I take you in my arms and swear it's nothing, really, it's not even that painful and I can't learn anything if you act as if I'm made of fine glass, don't you think?

You're so horrified you insist on applying ointment on my skin yourself. It's a very sweet, intimate moment; the silky touch of your fingers, the way you check on every minute to make sure you're not hurting me more, and my comforting words and kisses. And when we end up making love—you're reluctant at first, because you're worried, but I'm not that exhausted—it's soft and slow, a long moment of tender complicity.

And it's a delight, really, to be held and touched by someone who loves you so dearly, who only wants your well-being and who’ll do anything to make sure you’re doing good no matter what. It's been so long, for both of us; I think we had even forgot what it was.

 

We keep training everyday, when the weather allows it. You say I'm a fast learner. I'm not sure about that, but I'm learning new tricks every time.

“Don't look at your hands, keep your eyes on me. Good. You don't need to see what you're doing, just trust your body.”

“Easier said than done,” I complain, trying to take your advice into account.

“Do you look at your feet when you run after a prey? Or at your wings when you dive down?”

“No, of course not, my eyes are on my target.” I shrug.

“So It's the same here.”

“Oh. Makes sense.” I understand, now. My body is just the tool; it already knows what must be done. I am the will that wields it.

“Watch your stance. Your body—lowered.” I do as you say. “Think of your legs as an anchor into the ground. It may seems uncomfortable but it will be much more difficult to get you off-balance.”

“A strong enough kick would do the job, though.”

“Not necessarily. I told you before, it's not about pure strength. You could beat me in a second if you knew the right way. It would even be easy.”

“How could I? You're a fucking rock.”

You reach to grasp my hand and start bending my wrist in an odd way. I flinch, unbalanced. A faint yelp escapes from my throat. Damn, that’s painful.

“See? No effort required. You just need to know the trick. Now do that on me. No, not on the left hand, that wouldn't be fair.” You let out a laugh. “Yeah, like that. Now twist in the opposite direction.” I obey and it works, indeed. Your knees give way, and you bend down with a soft groan. I try it three more times with the same result.

“You didn't do that on purpose?” I ask, dubious.

“Nope. I can't resist it, it's how the body works. Of course, in an actual fight, it wouldn't be so easy. You'd have to be fast and work with your instinct, not your brain.” You pat my arm and take a step back. “Now, Let’s practice. Don't forget what I've told you. Don't waste your energy, use mine instead. C’mon!”

After an eternity, I finally manage to fight the right way. I even throw you on the ground, just once, and you get on your feet as quick as you fell, but you suddenly catch me in your arms, hugging tight, chuckling happily.

“You did it!”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I'm proud of you.”

A long, avid kiss signs the end of today's training. I'm sweating despite the cold and I smell like a goddamn skunk. It doesn’t bother you as you start pecking at my jaw, a trail of sloppy kisses, humming with pleasure, eyes half-closed. Heaven, you're such a sight. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it. As your flickering tongue goes down along my throat, your hands follow the same way on my back.

“Does it means we're done for today?” I ask, squirming.

“Hm-hm.” Your voice is low and your breath, so hot. You nibble at my collarbone with your front teeth, sending shivers all over my nerves.

“Oh, my god, Bucky—don't stop.”

You moan with a sudden, uncontrolled thrust of your hips against my leg. “Say it again.”

“What? _My god?_ ”

“Don't be silly,” you guffaw. “My name.”

Lucky for you, saying your name over and over was my plan from the beginning.

 

It's unfair you're the only one lecturing me, so I decided I should keep teaching you some wildlife tips. Every afternoon, after your lesson, which often ends like today's, I lead you to hidden paths to track down wild animals, to build traps or craft basic hunting weapons. I teach you which plants you must avoid at all cost and which one you can use for self-made remedies. Plants are the trickiest thing to learn, by far, so I make sure you know your stuff.

You're good at it, though. Soon, you'll be able to hunt on your own. It's important; we might need it one day or another.

 

_——_

 

Humming a song to myself, I'm taking care of the fire while you write down in your notebook. It's not night time yet, since days are getting much longer. We were quite hungry and worn out so we stopped walking for today. I throw another log in the firepit before stretching my legs with a long whimper. “I think my splinters have splinters.”

“How’s that even possible,” you snort, shaking your head.

“Wanna check it out?” I grin and I wiggle my bare feet in your direction.

“Thanks but no, thanks! I can smell them from here.”

“Asshole,” I scoff. Pretending to be shocked, I toss a small twig at you. You dodge without even looking at it.

“Just kidding. What were you singing, by the way?” You ask.

“Oh, just some silly song I've had stuck in mind for days.”

“Can I hear it?”

“Ugh, I'm not a good singer,” I protest. “Your ears are gonna bleed.”

“Come on...” You lean and start poking me, until I give up because you address me one of your provocative pouts. I can’t resist those and you’re perfectly aware of it.

“Alright, alright. Just don't laugh, huh? My voice is too low, I'll ruin it. It goes like this...” I take a deep breath. 

_"Everything I've done in my life's walk a little more; we've been raised in the same world with all those different colors. Everything I've done in my life's walk a little more; I walk through the pain and joy that gives the years over my back._

_“On and off the road, I try to keep my clocks on time; it's the only way I've got to make sure that I am not lost. On and off the road, I work to keep your love on top; it's the only way for me to be as strong as I'd like to be._

_“All my days I'll be trying, all my days I'll be trying; I'll try a little harder. Try a little, little, little stronger, try a little, little, little harder, try a little, little, little more.”_

When I'm finished, I raise my head to look at you, anxious, but you're not mocking me; instead, you have small tears at the corner of your eyes. You kiss me, intensely, before you rest your forehead against mine.

“It's not silly, and you're a good singer. It was beautiful.”

“You only say that because you love me, Buck.” I laugh, embarrassed. I can feel myself flushing. You can't be possibly serious, right?

“Would you mind... singing for me again? Another time?” You ask, an hopeful glimmer in your eyes.

“Anytime,” I reply without thinking. I'd do it all day long if it means making you feel good. You open a blank notebook page.

“I'd like to write it down. If you don't mind repeating it.”

“Only if you teach me some songs from when you were young.”

“Deal. There aren't many I can remember, but I'll give a try.”

“It's a good exercise for your brain, too.”

“Definitely,” you agree with a nod.

 

Singing together soon becomes a habit; it’s a much welcomed way to entertain ourselves. You wanna learn songs from the future, as you like to say, and I do my best to please your ears. I wish we had a way to listen to actual music: there are so many good tracks I want you to discover. You missed the best music years, so you've got a lot to catch up with.

“That one is a little bit odd,” I say one morning, “but it's one of my favorite.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Okay.” I look at the woods around us, recalling the familiar tune. I haven’t heard it for a long, long time.

_"Orphan girl, child, sing along. Stop the slaughter of our daughters; poisoning the water. Do you have love for humankind?_

_“Heart strings broken, wearily tuned to the moon; bastard widows born marooned. Do you have love for humankind?_

_“Nameless, faceless black-eyed soul; slave to sorrow, find your way home. Hope for healing if you're willing. Do you have love for humankind?”_

“Isn’t it a little sad?” You ask, intrigued.

“Yeah… But I love how it turns out at the end. How it says things are gonna get better eventually.”

 

_——_

 

We're close to the end of March and the forest finally starts coming back to life. It's an amazing sight I’ll never get tired of. The way early spring flowers bloom all over the ground—a colorful, sweet carpet of delicate petals—while trees slowly get green again. Everywhere, birds increase their already incessant gibberish; it's annoying because I can actually understand them, and they've got nothing significant to say. They just wanna fuck all the time. In any case, it's a relief to leave winter at last.

Except we won't be able to enjoy it any longer.

With spring comes heavy rains, and with rain comes new hazards. We're walking on the edge of a small rift, hurrying up to find a dry shelter before the rain soak us to the bones. I'm afraid it will manage to seep into our bags and ruin our food, so we’re almost running on the tricky path. Not a problem for you, for me though… Too busy looking around for a nice spot, I don't watch my steps. Why would I? Walking around in the woods comes as second nature to me—or so I thought.

He sees me first. He has shed his antlers a few days ago, but I can recognize a stag when I see one. He stares at us from the other side of the rift, still, attentive. Strong neck, noble face. His brown fur is covered in shimmering raindrops. My eyes meet his and I smile, in awe. This is such an uncommon encounter.

Suddenly the ground gives way beneath my feet; I fall down the slope and manage to land on my ass before sliding down to the bottom, but my right arm hits a big rock and I yelp, seeing stars. Oh hell no. That pain isn't good.

“Jules! You okay?” you call, already jumping down the few feet separating us.

“Yeah. I'm alive. Gimme a hand.”

Fortunately, my legs are okay—just a few scratches. You reach out with your left hand and I hold on to it as you lift me to the top of the breach, keeping my sore arm against my waist. Once it’s done, I sit down on the muddy soil. A feeling of pure terror is invading my nerves; I have trouble breathing. I already know we’re in big trouble.

“Are you injured? Show me your wrist.” You’re worried as fuck.

“Shit. It hurts so much—” I grit my teeth, holding back the wail that wanna come out of my throat.

“Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I can move. Just—it's painful. A lot.”

“What do we do?”

You help me as I stand up, pushing dripping hair away from my forehead with your fingertips. Your gentle touch is all I need right now.

“Let’s go find a place for tonight. Then... we'll see,” I decide.

I take a look around; the deer is gone.

You try not to panic as we walk back on the trail. As we move forward, I'm scolding myself for being so careless. A sprained wrist is bad news when you have to rely on your hands to survive.

 

Fortunately, and it’s a miracle, we come across a small cave before night shows up. Another traveler found shelter here and made a campfire a while ago. We even find some dry wood they left around. In our misfortune, we’re being lucky.

“How do you feel?” Your voice is tense and low. Hunched over the fire, you’re taking care of our dinner, even though I don’t feel like eating.

“I can barely move it now. It's swollen. Even with that ointment you put on it... I think it's definitely sprained.”

Abandoning the cooking pot, you take my hand in yours, very carefully, to examine it closely. “I don't know a lot anymore about injuries, but you have to let it rest. At least don't use it for a while. Do we have bandages?”

“Yes. The plastic box in the bottom of my bag. Dammit. I'm right-handed. So... It's gonna be a real issue. I can't hunt like that, even as an animal, you know.” I sigh while you wrap the bandage around my wrist. “We have two solutions left now, Bucky.”

“Which are?”

“You can take care of it,” I explain. “Hunt, gather food, build camps, prepare our meals. It'd be difficult if you're all alone actually, but I'm sure you could manage. I'd help as much as I can.”

“And the other option?”

“We go back to town, find a safe place and a way to make money until it’s healed. We wouldn't have to hunt and I could get a better access to modern medicine.”

You think about it for a while. Your wistful gaze is locked on the dark forest outside. “I'd rather go by the second one,” you say eventually.

“It means we'd be more exposed, too. You know that?”

“Of course. But I'm not sure I can handle the woods as good as you do. If things get worse because of me—”

“I'm sure it wouldn't.” I try to clench and unclench my right hand, making a face.

“No, I know I'd starve us both. I'd rather go back to town, really.”

I look down, grim, undecided. I don't want to leave the mountains. Not yet. On the other hand... It's all my fault. If I hadn't been so stupid. Now, because of me, you might get in more trouble if we choose to linger here.

In the end, it's not a hard choice: “We'll go tomorrow, then,” I say slowly. “Let me rest for tonight and we'll leave in the morning.”

 

Later, once you've gathered some more wood for the night and made me eat so much it feels like I've got a damn pebble stuck in my stomach—ignoring my complaints, you said my body needs a lot of nutrients in order to heal—, you unroll the sleeping bag next to the driest cave's wall.

“Time for you to sleep, sweetie.”

“Sweetie? Who are you now, my mom?”

You have a soft chuckle. “Let's sleep, right?”

I settle on my back; you're on your right side, huddled against me, as always. The familiarity of all this makes me feel a little bit better.

“I know it's hard for you to leave the wild, your home,” you whisper, kissing my temple.

“It's okay.”

Skeptical, you study my face. “Seriously?”

“Don't worry, Buck. I'll be fine, I've seen worse.” I rest my cheek on your collarbone. You're so warm, it's soothing me instantly. “Plus I'll go anywhere if it means being with you.”

You tilt your head with a strange smile. “So I'm sort of like... your home now?”

“Well, yes. You didn't know it yet?” The sound you make sounds either like a laugh or a low sob. “You're not gonna start crying, are you?”

“Sorry, it's stupid.” Your eyes are wet indeed. We share kisses and cuddles until it becomes hungrier and we have to stop ourselves from going further, because I’m feeling weary.

 

Sometimes, an awful, weird feeling, like an omen or something, cripples me down out of the blue: some day, I’m gonna lose you, so I have to enjoy our relationship as much as it's possible, before it's too late, before it’s taken away from us. Because we both know it will be, one way or another.

It's a devouring idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two songs sung by Jules are respectively [All My Days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bt1PfbtohSo) by Jain and [Tearz for Animals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2cbbA3o9og) by CocoRosie.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning : mention of self-harm (non-graphic), homophobic slurs, slightly explicit sex scene

_A motel room, Knoxville, Tennessee, April 2015_

 

After going back to the north to leave the mountains, we found a very cheap but otherwise decent motel near the town's outskirt. The owner, a taciturn old lady, seems to be the honest kind and she doesn't ask many questions, provided we pay her in time.

The room we’re renting has a rich, musty smell assaulting my sensible nose at all times, and we can hear the other clients like the walls are made of paper. But we don't really care, as long as we’re left in peace. When there's too much noise around we’ll turn on the radio or go outside for a while.

Lately, we've been enjoying long night walks every evening. The weather is warmer, the days longer, and everything gets quiet once the sun goes down, so it's nice. Wandering in the dark streets and sneaking into the desert parks, it's almost like we're out of time and space. Almost like being in the wild again.

Each time we come back to the room, you spent at least one hour checking the motel and the streets around, just to make sure nobody has tailed us today. Sometimes I come with you and you teach me all you know.

“It's weird,” I tell you in a whisper one day as we're getting some fruits at the local market. “They found us so easily last time we stopped in a town, and there's been no single sign of them so far. Even in New York, they eventually got us after a short while.”

“It depends whether or not they've got active agents down there. It’s a small city, maybe we're being lucky, for once.” You grab a couple of pears in your left hand. They look ripe. The marketplace is crowded; no one is paying attention to us.

“Or maybe they stopped looking for you.”

“I don't think so. I'm… I was a highly valuable asset. I know Im wanted, not just by Hydra, and not only for my crimes, but also for the intel I’ve gathered over the missions,” you explain, wry. Yeah, I bet many intelligence agencies all over the world would _love_ to obtain all they can from you before they get you killed. Or worse. You hand the pears and a few other fruits—bananas, oranges, it’s so good to have fresh food at last—to the seller and conceal a discreet wince when he announces the price.

 

We were running out of money so you’ve found a small job at the bar on the other side of the motel street. You're doing the dishes, cleaning the room and taking out the trash in the morning, a few hours per week. Of course, it's illegal; the boss never asked for any papers, so it doesn't pay much. Still, it allows us to get some food and rent our room. If the other employees saw your prosthesis, they never mentioned it. In that neighborhood, nobody cares about who you are or why you're here provided that you're no trouble.

I wish I could help you and work there as well, but my hand is still an issue. I can't do much at this point; it's killing me. I hate being inactive. So out of frustration, I go outside for jogs every morning, just after you get to work. Working out just for the sake of it isn’t something I'm used to do. In the wild, my body never needs anything like that, and now it craves it. It’s a weird feeling. I run along the local river, in the parks, everywhere I can find a little patch of nature—it’s easier than in New York—, trying not to think too much about what would happen if you were attacked while I’m away.

At least my injury is healing up: it doesn't hurt as much as before and I can move without feeling like my wrist is tearing apart. When we arrived to the city, we went to a drugstore and I got some medications, and the pharmacist took a look at my wrist; he said it wasn't serious but I should still see a doctor, just in case. I promised I'd follow his advice, knowing I'd never do it anyway. Doctors are expensive and they want to know your identity and they ask _questions_. I avoid them like the plague.

 

There's a TV in our room and we watch it every night, sprawled together on the carpeted floor. I'm not a big fan of it usually but it allows you to learn things about the modern world—things I can’t even explain to you because they seem so natural to me I don’t notice them anymore. You watch news and history channels mostly, sometimes movies, and you're always baffled by the difference with what you used to know. The day we got to watch a reality show was... funny, to put it mildly. You kept asking why the hell such vain and boring things were being aired, and I told you people never stopped being stupid, only now they could broadcast it all around the world. I can’t wait for the day I’ll show you how to use the internet, you’re not gonna believe your own eyes. You already informed me you know how to use a computer, but it was always as a part of your missions—hacking, looking for intel and that kind of stuff.

While you remained overly calm, you were worried as fuck when we heard about the Sokovia events. You didn't sleep much during that period, since all your attention was drawn on the TV screen as it showed your old friend fighting with his weird squad in real time. I almost had to force you to go to bed.

“I'm sure he'll be fine,” I tell you with a kiss on your shoulder. It's the middle of the night and you're facing the wall, unable to find sleep. Moonlight breaks through the shutters so I can see your eyes are open. Unwilling to talk about your concerns, you let out a half-hearted hum. “He's tough and he's not alone.”

“He's an idiot,” you grumble with a shrug. “Always running right into danger.”

I laugh. According to the little I know about him, you're not entirely wrong.

“You could... rejoin him, if it makes you feel better.”

“No,” you say with a second of hesitation. I must admit, it’s a relief for me, and I'm angry at myself for being so selfish. But what would I do if you decided to leave? I can't force you to stay with me, it's definitely not the kind of person I am. Yet... It makes me sick just to think you might be gone one day.

“Bucky, you should really get some sleep,” I suggest after another hour. The way you're breathing, I can tell without a doubt you're not asleep yet.

You turn around to face me. “I can't.”

“Tell me what's wrong.”

“It's not... It's nothing important. Just—”

“What?”

“The bed's too soft. It's not comfortable.” You sigh. “I shouldn't complain. It's the first time I can sleep in an actual bed since... since forever, I guess.”

I raise my hands to cup your face. My thumbs start playing with the stubble on your chin. “To be fair, I was feeling the same. I'm a goddamn animal, so I like sleeping right on the ground,” I joke. “That bed, it's been killing my back since we arrived last week.”

“Me too. What do we do then?”

“We could... I dunno, put the mattress on the floor? Better than nothing.”

We lift the mattress with caution, no need to wake up the entire floor, and we put it on the space between the bed and the bathroom wall. The already small room feels way tighter, but at least, it’s more comfortable.

“Hm. Better.” I roll on my side and spread my right leg across your lap. “It reminds me of those days in New York.”

“I was just thinking about it. It seems so far away, now.” Your metal arm curls around my side. Good gods, it feels so reassuring; even though its original purpose was to inspire dread and cause death, we've been able to turn it into something entirely different in the past few months.

You're slowly dozing off when something startles you again. It's probably one of those sleepless nights after all. You're gonna get tired for work tomorrow. I let my hand wander in your hair, hoping it will eventually lull you back to sleep.

“Do you miss it? Shapeshifting?” You ask suddenly, brushing the snake tattoo on my neck with your fingertips.

“A lot.”

“I'm sorry about it, Jules.”

“Don't. It's no big deal. And it'd be stupid to do it these days, with a sprained wrist.”

“As soon as you're better, we go back to the woods,” you assure me.

“You sure? Aren't you tired of it?”

“I've liked it so far. Feels safer. And it's your place, so of course I like it.”

“Thank you. You’re such a sweetheart. Won't you miss your job, though?" I ask teasingly. "Your new friends?"

"Ugh, no. Shane thinks Margaret is a bitch because she won't sleep with him, and Margaret just wants to get the hell out of town and move in with her girlfriend once she's made enough money for college tuitions. At least she is actually nice, unlike that entitled jerk. And you know the worst? He thinks I like him, just because once I listened to him venting about how his life is unfair and all women are dumb for rejecting him. Not like I had a choice, since we were working together at the moment."

You’re ranting; it’s hella cute. Feels like we actually have an ordinary life.

"What a douche. Did anyone make any comment about your arm lately?" It’s a big concern for both of us.

"Only the owner's kid. Said it was cool and asked if I had superpowers too."

"Oh my god, what did you tell him?"

"That I could shoot laser rays with my eyes." I burst out laughing. You really did that. "The others, I told them I lost it in Afghanistan and got the prosthesis from the army... That would make sense, you think?"

"Definitely."

"Okay, good. I think I had a mission there a few years ago. I'm not sure. Anyway... They stopped asking questions after that."

"It's a sensitive topic these days, yeah."

The next evening, before we get out for a long walk, I can't help it anymore, I feel like a lion in a tiny cage: I have to shapeshift at least once. So I turn myself into a harmless ribbon snake and I curl around your neck. No wrist, no pain, right? It's a tricky shape, because it means I'm basically deaf and we cannot communicate the usual way if things turn bad. But it's also one of the most discreet I've got, and you can easily carry me around.

I'm huddled between your skin and your scarf, keeping a lazy eye on the outskirts we’re walking by. I can feel your heart beating through your veins, right under that soft skin of yours. It's a low, soothing vibration that reminds me of the way sun rays would heat up my scales in the summer. Warm. So warm. Snake thoughts are overrunning my mind as you walk down a quiet suburban street.

I run my tongue on your throat, tasting your sweat. You smell so nice—unlike other humans. Even after two weeks in this town, the forest’s scent lingers on you. You know, it means you belong to it now. To the wildlife. Just like trees and rocks and wolves and snakes. Just like me. I love it.

Under that shape, I’m not meant to stay awake at night. I gotta sleep. I'm slowly diving into slumber, and your quiet pace plays a good part in it. When I wake up eventually, I'm back into my human shape, naked. You're next to me on the mattress. Your fingers are stroking my hair. I have trouble brushing off the deep lethargy I fell into earlier; all night long, I cling to you and to the wondrous feeling of skin against skin, skin against metal.

 

One morning, you go to work after another sleepless night and when you come back, earlier than usual, I realize you’re not in good shape. You’re pale, your hands are shaking, and you can’t focus your eyes on anything.

“Are you okay, Buck?” I ask warily. Sometimes it’s best to leave you alone when you’re like that.

“I don’t know. Cold. Sent me home. Told me I had fever or something.”

I put my good hand on your forehead. Even though the heaters are on, you’re shivering. This isn’t good. But it’s not fever either: your skin feels cold to the touch... It’s something else, and I think I know how to deal with it.

“Damn. Alright, you know what, let’s take a bath. Take your clothes off while I fill the tub.”

I sit down on an old wooden stool as you settle in the water, closing your eyes under the relaxing feeling. Steam is filling the bathroom. I take a deep breath and lean over the bathtub edge, my hand slowly stroking the water.

“How is it now?”

“Better. Come?” You propose with a shy smile. I know you feel bad about what just happened.

“Go ahead, I'll have one later.”

“You could have it now with me,” you insist.

“No. There's not enough room for the two of us. Besides, I gotta take care of you and you deserve a good, hot bath. How long since the last time you got one?”

You sigh, glancing at the stained ceiling. “An eternity. Before the war. I think.”

I take a moment to contemplate you. From head to toes, you're definitely the prettiest man on earth, and I'm not saying that because I'm biased. You glance up at me through your eyelashes and I find myself in awe under the intensity of your gaze.

Your hair tips brush your shoulders underwater; in the dim neon light, your arm glows faintly. The hot water has reddened your scar. I frown, realizing there's something odd about it I had never noticed before.

“Bucky, why do your scars look like claw marks?”

You look down at your chest, brush it with your right hand, your lips sealed in a thin, nervous line.

“Because they are.”

I gasp, eyes watering all of a sudden. “Bucky—”, I manage to breathe despite the tight knot in my stomach, and I rest my hand on yours, the same you used to harm yourself.  “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No. Please.”

“Okay.” The scarring is deep, messy. I run my thumb on the irregular lines. It reminds me of a wasteland, and it's an unsettling coincidence that it's right above your heart. I believe it wasn’t allowed to heal as it should have, likely because you kept doing it for a long, long time.

“It used to hurt. I wanted to remove it and I—” You look away. Lost in painful memories. “Every time they’d wake me up and pull me out of cryo, I couldn't remember why it was there.”

In the end, you can't help but tell me about it. Does sharing make the pain a little more bearable?

“Or I would remember. And it was worse. Sometimes I do it in my sleep. Even now.”

“I noticed. Fortunately it's not enough to hurt you and when I take your hand in mine, it soothes you, most of the time.”

“Thanks.”

I shrug. “I wish I could do more.” I ruined the moment with my nosy questions. It was supposed to be a good time for you, a time to get better. Instead, I made you remember awful things.

You must be aware I'm mad at myself, because you take my left hand in yours and lace our fingers together.

“Come here.”

“In the bath? I told you, the tub is too small—“

“So what? I wanna be with you.”

Good point. I remove my clothes as quick as possible and sit down in the tub in front of you, my legs around your waist. Now the water is on the verge of overflowing. But it feels so fucking good.

“Lower your head, I want to wash your hair. It’s disgusting,” you say, wrinkling up your nose.

“Hey. That's not true!” I laugh as you pour some water on my scalp before you rub our shampoo bar in my hair.

For some reason, you decide to use your left arm. It's hard and cold and soft at the same time—I trust it as much as I trust the rest of you. I look up at the plates on your forearm while you rub my hair in slow circles. They keep adjusting to every movement you make; it's fascinating.

“You're the one who was supposed to get pampered, not me,” I mutter, squinting my eyelids so the foam won't go into my eyes.

“You wanna wash my hair too?”

“Hell yeah.” I grab the bar and I start massaging until your hair is covered with foam like mine.

“I love that smell,” you say. “What is it?”

“Orange blossom. I got it at the grocery yesterday. That’s good, huh?”

“We didn't have all those fancy perfumes, back in my days,” you mumble.

“Careful, you’re speaking like an old man. You outdated ass,” I joke. I gather a lump of shampoo foam and smear it on my lower jaw. “Hey look, I'm Santa Claus!”

You burst into laughter, splashing my face with your hands. “Why don’t you grow a beard? I'm sure it'd suit you.”

“One day, maybe. It requires a lot of care. And I'm a lazy butt,” I drawl.

“The outdated and the lazy. What a nice butt duo.”

“We should start a band or something,” I chuckle.

We rinse our hair under the showerhead. By the time we’re done, the water getting out of it has gone cold. The downside of renting a low-cost room...

“Speaking of beards—I should shave. What do you think?” You ask.

“It's up to you, Bucky. I like both.”

Let’s just hope you’re not gonna break down this time, like that time in the river. Even though the episode you had earlier seems to have passed with the hot bath, we can never be sure. It’s highly unpredictable.

Standing in front of the mirror, you look like you're facing a stranger. You run your fingers on your face with a slightly pained expression.

“I'm definitely old,” you grumble to yourself.

And you're right. You still look quite young, but what you’ve been through, and how long it’s been, shows up through small details I’ve learned to recognize. You can't even tell what your actual age is; they broke your life thread into tiny, mismatching pieces you can no longer put back together.

Drying my hair with a towel, I take a look at your reflection as you shave carefully. Would I be able to determine your age? You don't have any white hair yet but it means nothing; you must be thirty years old at least, probably more. I don't know. I've always been bad at guessing people's age. A deep wrinkle between your eyebrows. Dark patches under your eyes. A sharp jawline. Because the wind, the rain and the cold have been carving my face for years, I have the same features, more or less. So of course, I look older than I am. But you... Well, you've been carved by abuse, brainwashing and coercion. It's far worse. Far deeper.

 

“I'm starved. Wanna order some pizzas?” You propose one evening of the third week.

“Let's go get them, instead. I wouldn't mind a good walk.” We’ve been stuck in the room for the whole day and I’m dying for some fresh air.

“Okay.”

It was a bad idea. A fucking bad idea. I'm pretty sure it's the reason we got chased down like rabbits to the other end of the world. Yeah, that's how it began, I’m sure.

Once we’ve found a good place to eat, we settle in a quiet corner, caps low on our heads to hide from inquisitive eyes. You stare at the menu with a solemn expression, your right hand hovering above it as your read the options. You keep your left hidden in your pocket.

“There are so many choices. Which one do you suggest?” You ask.

“Not the pineapple one. Definitely not. I dunno, just try one with your favorite ingredients. Hm... I'm gonna order one with tons of cheese.”

Despite the low price, the pizzas were surprisingly tasty, and you took your time to enjoy each bite. After that, we decide to go for a walk around the river. The sun’s setting in the distance; it’s a peaceful evening and we go back at the motel at a late hour.

Laughing at one of my jokes, we walk through a darkened back alley. It's the shortest way to the motel and the most quiet one. Or so I thought. I was sure we wouldn’t run into trouble that night. It was supposed to be just the two of us.

Satiated and filled with an astounding burst of love for you, I stop in the middle of the way and grab you by the neck to kiss you longly.

Like a fool, I don’t notice that goddamn guy hanging around the exit of a nightclub near the end of the alley. He’s leaning against the wall; when we walk past him, he throws the cigarette he just finished at our feet and I let out a annoyed huff.

“Fucking fags,” he groans, loud enough for us to hear.

“What did you just say, asshole?” I snap, and I turn around to face him. Ready to punch his ugly mouth.

“Jules…,” you start with a firm pull on my sleeve.

The guy takes a step or two, reaching a hand to grab the collar of my coat. “I said—”

“Get off.” You’re already on him, pinning him against the wall, your left hand buzzing and whirring under the effort.

The guy starts whimpering when he notices it. “What the fuck, what the fuck—”

“Leave us alone,” you warn, a feral snarl baring your teeth. You toss him on the ground and he yelps in fear and pain before stumbling on his feet and running as fast as he can. I’m pretty sure he pissed himself at this point.

I take a few steps back, eager to leave that place as quick as possible. “You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. You?”

We walk much faster now. “I’ve seen worse,” I shrug, holding back a nervous breath. “And look.”

I open my hand, revealing the wallet I picked in the guy’s pocket when he was busy trying to grab me. You have a soft gasp.

“Oh my god, Jules. You stole it?” I address you a proud grin. “Seriously, you can do that?”

“Hey, how do you think I’ve survived all these years?” I reply. I open the wallet and find a nice bunch of money. “Well look at that! There must be like, six hundred bucks?”

I throw the wallet in a trashcan along the way. That’ll teach that asshole. On our side, we’ll make good use of that money.

“I could’ve dealt with that all alone, you know,” I need to say after a while. I don’t have to be protected, I can get on my own. Still, I appreciate the gesture.

“Sorry. I couldn’t let him hurt you,” you tell me.

It’s my whole fault. I shouldn’t have reacted that way, ignoring him would’ve been better. If you hadn’t been there… I don’t even wanna think about it. “Shit. I hate bullies,” you add angrily after a while. So that's why you didn't hesitate a split second.

“Yeah, me too. Same kind of guy than those who used to harass me at school. Be slightly different and they'll jump at your throat for no reason. At least they bark more than they bite.”

Your hand tenses around mine. You throw me a compassionate look. “I didn't know you were bullied.”

“It's no big deal,” I say with a waving gesture. “I got over it. Defended myself.” I shiver, uneasy. “We should be more careful when we go out now. He probably has friends around, you know.”

When we eventually come back to the motel, shaken by the events, we can't find sleep until it's almost dawn, so we end up talking about our respective experiences with bullying. Turns out we have a lot in common. You kept protecting Steve Rogers from bullies when he was small and sick; it was so easy to pick on someone who could never win a fight, even if he fought back every time. On my side, I had to protect my little sister from the same kind of people, because she was related to the weirdo, the kid who was neither girl or boy, the freak. We also both had to deal with homophobia more than once. Different decades, same bullshit. Thankfully, this one was just a shithead with a big mouth.

Late in the morning, I wake up and you're hard against my thigh. You don't sleep anymore, instead you're watching me with an hungry look I've never seen before. We make out until you ask, panting: “Can you turn into a man?” So I do so and we sit down in front of each other, hips stuck together, legs around the other’s waist. You take us both in your left hand, and I writhe under the cold touch, but it's awesome, the way you stroke us in your palm, firmly, tightly. The odd sounds of your arm, the fluid way the plates shift and recalibrate, following your every move. And the pleased whimpers escaping from your lips—heaven. You whisper to my ear “I want you to come inside me,” and it makes me all weak in the knees. With some regret, I tell you we can't do that right now, it'd hurt you, we gotta go slow, so instead you take my left hand in your right and slide it under your ass with a dirty grin.

Moaning without holding back, you come all over your hand, all over me, with the help of one of my fingers inside you. You're so quiet usually, afraid any noise could threaten our safety; now it's as if you wanted the world to know that yes, you're fucking queer, and you're fucking in love with me.

It's a delight to see you being able to express who you really are deep down. It's probably a little bit foggy for you at this point, finding yourself again after you were shattered like a mirror. Your sexual preferences wasn't one of the first memories that came back to you, of course, but your body remembered it anyway.

Once, long before our relationship evolved, I explained you all I knew about how people are now free to love who they want, as long as it's between consensual adults; I told you about gender fluidity and all those new ways of expressing one’s identity. Naively, I thought you'd be puzzled and creeped out. But you said it was making sense, since people had been trapped into our society's bigotry for so long. For you, it was a relief to know it had finally changed.

After we’ve cleaned ourselves in the bathroom, we have a comforting breakfast—fruits and peanut butter sandwiches—on the bed.

"So, I was wondering. I'm... bisexual? It's the right word?" You ask, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah, that’s it. It's up to you, Bucky. Only you can know for sure."

You drop your gaze, consider the apple in your hand for a while. Your long eyelashes cast lovely shadow over your cheeks. You blink and look up at me, right in the eyes. "Then that's what I am," you decide. Nobody will ever take your identity from you again, certainly not some homophobic dickheads.

We don't mention yesterday anymore after that. There isn't much to say and it's too painful of a memory to linger on it anyway.

Instead, we get a large bottle of lube at the grocery.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: gruesome depiction of a fight.

_A stolen aircraft, Atlantic Ocean, April 2015_

 

I can’t stay here any longer. The walls feel even tighter than before and most of all, the outside world has taken a very hostile tone lately, to the point I’m afraid of going outside. I gotta run back to the mountains or I'll go mad in a short time.

“I'm feeling better,” I tell you three days after the back alley incident, wiggling my wrist under your eyes to prove I’m actually fine now. “We can leave whenever you want.”

“Okay then.” I'm glad you don't question my well-being. “Tomorrow? I'll have to let my boss know I can no longer work at the bar. I’ll find an excuse.”

I nod. I can wait for another day. You say you won't regret working there, but your coworkers will probably miss you—except Shane, that asshole. It's kinda cute when you talk about your job; that's such a mundane thing. It’s almost like we're having a normal life. Almost.

The day after, we lock the room door behind us, give back the keys at the reception desk and leave the motel without looking back.

The sun hasn't risen yet. The sky's slowly getting red in the distance. It's gonna be a beautiful spring day; cherry trees are blossoming all along the street we're walking down. I'm already more relaxed.

Right after leaving the city, we walk on the side of a large highway. The sound of cars and trucks rushing down the road is unsettling; I look forward to go back on the trail, where silence is only disturbed by wildlife and the wind blowing in the branches.

But my blood freezes in my veins when I hear a distant, roaring noise that has nothing to do with the highway.

“Hey, what's that?” I ask, pointing at the sky. You frown; your fingers clutch at your bag's strap.

It looks like a mix between a helicopter and a fighter aircraft. Short wings, no blades but reactors that allow it to hover above our heads. It flies past us at an insane speed, turns around and comes back in our direction.

Opening fire.

“Run!” You shout, already jumping over the road railing—it’s a miracle the bullets miss us, but I can hear the sound of wood and concrete being shattered right behind, along with car horns. Shit; I hope not one has gotten injured or worse.

We dash through the woods nearby. It's dense as fuck, thorns and branches whipping my face, hooking on my clothes. You're running too fast. I'm way slower and I can't follow your frantic pace for long.

“Buck, wait,” I beg, out of breath.

You stop for a second, long enough grab my left arm and pull me behind you. “Come!”

The aircraft hovers in circles above the woods. It lands in the middle of a clearing, right in front of our path, blocking the only way out. All around us the vegetation is too thick to run through it.

We hide behind a fallen tree. “Fuck,” I spit. “That guy from the other night, he—he must've reported us to the police.”

“They're no cops. Worse,” you say, voice raw.

“I figured. I’m sure it was easy to locate you once an alert had been sent to all police stations in the area.”

You take a look at the surroundings. Men are getting out of the aircraft, and soon after they hurl to the tree line in a circle formation.

“What do we do?” I ask, thoughts racing, but I’m kinda panicking now. You don’t look any better. “It's no like we could steal that plane from them and fly away to god knows where with it—”

Something sparks in your eyes as I say that. “Actually, it's a good idea.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“The pilot is still on board, I suppose. We sneak into the plane, throw him out and use it to escape,” you explain.

I stare at you, wide-eyed. Seriously? That's a crazy plan. It's gonna fail for sure. Do we really have a choice, though? I can already hear more men coming from behind us. They're circling us in all directions. We won't escape by foot.

“Okay, count me in. What do you have in mind?”

“We'll never get them in short range.” You shake your head, thinking fast. “And I threw away all my guns when I—“ You pause with a frown.

“What?”

“Could you shapeshift and reach that plane?”

It's risky. I've done worse. I can be a hunter. A wolf. A fox. A falcon. A _falcon_! The window’s narrow and I'll have to be fast, but it will do. They won't get me, in theory. But you?

“How are you going to catch up with me? With the bags and all?”

A wry, tired smile on your lips. “Not a problem,” you just say without further explanation.

I don’t want to leave you, hell no. But there’s no other choice. I must trust you, or we will die today.

So I remove my clothes as fast as I can—the men are getting closer—and put them in my bag. You lift the two backpacks on your left shoulder without any effort.

“Now go,” you tell me with a light pat on my bare thigh.

Your knife is already in your right hand, the other curled in a tight fist. Our eyes meet, and I wish I could make it last longer; I turn into a small-sized falcon and the moment’s gone.

I fly past two men approaching your hiding spot. Heavily armed. A wave of terror squeezes my gut, but you’re already making your move. They don’t notice you as you avoid them, hidden between the trees.

The plane’s just half a mile away. No one’s guarding it, though as you said there’s at least one guy inside, because I can see a moving shadow. Landing on the ground a few feet from the open door, I shift again—a mountain lion—and sneak into the entrance with a swift, silent jump.

You were right. The pilot is speaking on the radio, standing up, his face turned towards the windshield. He doesn’t see me, and he dies not knowing what’s happening to him.

A quiet thud; startled, I jump, hissing and ready to fight again.

“Hey,” you say, “it’s me.” There are a few red stains on your face and your right sleeve. You don’t look well. I shift back and I wipe the blood from my mouth, relieved.

“I thought you were never gonna make it,” I tell you once we’ve tossed the pilot’s body out of the vehicle by the side door.

“Here, your clothes. Get the bags and close the back entrance while I start the engine.” I get dressed faster than ever and rush to the aircraft’s tail.

I’m pulling up the bags you tossed near the exit when an explosion of pain strikes my left shoulder—I shriek, fall down on my knees and turn around just in time to block the second hit with my right forearm, gritting my teeth. My sprained wrist isn’t doing so good after all.

One of the men has jumped in while I had my back turned. He has a combat knife and he's ready to stab my ass.

No time to think. I hit him in the gut; he barely flinches, but I'm used to it since I've trained with you for days and days. I grab his arm and his elbow, twist firmly the way you taught me. He groans, punches me in the face with his free hand, and I yelp; he doesn’t spare me like you do. I fall on my back. Panic rushes through my veins but suddenly you’re on him, and he drops his weapon when your foot meets his flank.

I pick his knife on the floor and without thinking, I go for his exposed throat.

It's horrible. It's not like being an animal and killing for food. The feeling of the blade cutting the tender skin and the tendons makes me nauseous. And, worst of all, the awful noise right after: he's drowning in his own blood. At least if I was a predator, I’d have quickly choked him.

I push him out of the plane, mostly to stop hearing that sound.

As I do that, I notice other men in the distance: they’re running in our direction. On your side, you manage to find the door’s controls, and it closes with a swishing sound when your fist hits the button. I let the knife fall on the floor, hands numb. The fight lasted for a few seconds only, yet it felt like hours. You throw me a concerned look and reach to squeeze my elbows.

“You okay?” You ask.

“I'm good,” I exhale, voice blank. My shoulder is killing me though, not to mention my wrist; I really hope this hasn’t aggravated the injury. “Let's leave, they're coming at us.”

We go back to the cockpit. You take the pilot seat while I fasten my seat belt on the copilot side. The aircraft begins its ascent; a hail of bullets hits the hull but it holds on, thankfully. Once the aircraft is flying away, you configure it so it runs on autopilot at maximum speed. It’s only then that I allow myself to breathe again. They won’t follow us up there, right?

“I didn’t know you could pilot these kind of things,” I comment.

You release the plane controls before relaxing your shoulders with a long, trembling sigh. “How are you feeling?”

“A few bruises and scratches. And a knife cut on my left shoulder.” I show it to you. It's deep and bleeding everywhere on my clothes—with all that mess, I forgot to mention it. You look panicked and leave the seat to check my wounds. “It's nothing, really. But that shirt is ruined. It was my favorite.” I let out a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Let's take care of this.” I unfasten my seat belt and you pull out our first-aid kit from my bag. I remove my shirt, wincing because the already dried blood is sticking on the fabric and pulling at the wound’s edges.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp when you see it. “It’s my fault.”

“No it’s not. Why are you saying that?”

“You killed again because of me, you got hurt—”

“Hey. Don't say that. It was my decision. I had to protect you.” I put my hand on yours. “I'm not afraid of killing, I already told you, Buck.” Not afraid, but grossed out as hell. I gotta rinse my mouth and get rid of the blood taste.

That guy gave me a good scare and if you hadn’t been there, I’d have lost the fight. It was only a matter of chance. There’s an odd sense of guilt too, despite the fact he was about to kill us.

“Doesn't mean you should do it.” You shake your head.

I don't know what to say, so I clench my teeth and let you clean the wound with alcohol and wrap a bandage around my shoulder. I feel slightly better after that.

 

It’s been a few hours. That freaking aircraft is fast, to say the least. You’ve disabled the plane trackers and the radio and there’s no sign we’re being followed on the radar. But I could be wrong; this machine is far too complex for my poor technology skills. I glance up at you. You’re acting like you’ve been piloting your whole life, focused on the controls, the complex screens, the open landscape before us. It’s impressive and a little bit scary. What else do you know? What kind of knowledge did they put into your brain through coercion?

We’re flying high above the ocean now, right to the east. After a while, I realize we haven’t discussed our destination. “So, where are we going?” I ask.

“Europe.”

“Europe? Why?”

“America’s getting way too dangerous. They’ve seen you, they’ll be looking for you too now.”

“But Europe? I’ve never lived there,” I hesitate, not convinced. I won’t be able to guide you to safety this time.

“Don’t worry. That won’t be a problem.”

Of course you told me about some of the missions you completed in that part of the world, about the fact they kept you in hidden facilities during the Soviet era, not only in Russia, but in a few other countries as well. Do you really think it’s a good idea to go back there? You might stumble on a ghost or two from your past. And who knows what would happen then...

Slumped on my seat while you drive the plane, I’m being quite useless, so I stumble on my feet—I’m feeling sick, flying at that speed and that height. It’s not like when I’m being a bird and I can control everything. Reaching the back of the aircraft, I start rummaging through the gear, opening crates and shelves.

Well, looks like they’ve brought a whole amory with them. They weren’t planning on taking you alive. I open a locker and find a dozen of small metal spheres I have trouble identifying in the first place. I take a few in my hands, examining them closely.

“Hey, Buck,” I call. “They’ve got, uh, grenades? And some other shit down there!”

A muffled curse. “Don’t touch it!”

Too late. I replace the items carefully before it blows us up as you come over to check it yourself.

“We could take some of that stuff, what do you think?” I suggest.

“It might be useful, but—”

“What?”

“I could harm people. Harm you. I’m much less dangerous if I don’t have weapons on me.”

“I get it. If these guys come back at us, we should be prepared though. Give ourselves the best possible odds.”

“Okay,” you concede after a moment of thinking. “But no guns.”

“Well I’m not a big fan of them either, you know.”

We take half a dozen of these weird-looking grenades and a few ones that can stick to a wall, an opponent, anything, when we throw them. I had never seen such things, although you seem to be very familiar with them. I wonder how many kind of weapons they forced you to use over the years.

You find a new blade for me—mine is more suited for gutting fish and cutting plants than killing a grown-ass man—, it’s heavy and quite cumbersome, and like yours, it can be folded to fit inside a pocket. Awesome.

A set of throwing knives complete our lethal collection. You promise you’ll teach me how to use them very soon, once we’re out of this mess. If we get out of it one day, which is uncertain, in my opinion.

When night eventually comes, I start dozing off on my seat, and you tell me that I should get some sleep, that you’re gonna be fine, you’re not even tired. Bullshit. The dark circles under your eyes grow larger with each hour. Insisting would be counterproductive so I leave and lie down on one of the bench, near the armory. The pain in my shoulder, the constant roaring, the various smells of strangers—our enemies—, and the aftermath of today’s events prevents me from getting more than a few hours of agitated sleep, though, and I come back to you as the sun rises in the distance.

 _Europe_ , I think, an odd mix of anxiety and hope squeezing my guts. What awaits us there? You made that decision on your own, without even asking about my opinion, but I can’t really blame you; we’re on the run and you chose the only solution we’re left with to get away before it’s too late. Because you said it yourself, it’s not just about you, I’m also involved now.

All this goes far beyond what I thought I’d live through my lifetime, and it fills me with dread—but there’s no turning back anymore.

——

_An old town, Poland, April 2015_

 

As soon as we saw the first lights on the French coast, you put the aircraft in stealth mode so we were able to fly over that country before we reached Germany, without running into any trouble. I kept staring at the unfamiliar landscape beneath; cities, rivers, forests—most of them being smaller than American ones. How could we even hide down there? But that’s not where we’ll stop, to my relief.

“I’m so tired,” I yawn, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. “Feels like I’m jet lagged or something.”

“That’s probably the case,” you reply.

“Why don’t you have it too?” The fact you can stay awake and alert at this point remains a complete mystery.

“I’m used to it.”

Yeah, I imagine being shipped for assassinations and terrorist attacks all around the world on a regular basis does that in the long run.

“I’ve only travelled to Europe once,” I tell you as we fly across a landscape of plains and middle-sized woods. “I was twelve, maybe. It was nice because my father wasn’t there most of the time.”

“Where was he?”

“Attending meetings and appointments for his job. He didn’t tell us what it was about.” I shrug. “My sister, my mom and I followed him but we were often left alone. So we had quite a good time. We visited London, Vienna, Paris… I can’t say I loved those cities, I’d have preferred to go hiking in the Alps or something all day long, but it was nice in any case.”

For a long minute, you don’t say anything at all, and I begin to think you didn’t listen to what I said.

 _“Le ciel bleu sur nous peut s’effondrer, et la terre peut bien s’écrouler; peu m’importe si tu m’aimes, je me fous du monde entier—_ ” You hum softly, your eyes half-closed.

“Wait, you can speak French too?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

“ _Bien sûr, mon amour_ ,” you reply, and a warm feeling settles in my stomach.

“Cool. Where did you hear that song? During the war?”

“No. I’ve been to France during that time too, but, uh… I went back, after. I can’t recall much.”

“During one of your missions,” I figure out.

“Yeah. I remember killing a guy in his house and that song was playing and—” You clench your fists, a veil of shame shading your features. I rest my cheek on your shoulder and slide my fingers between yours. “I think I’ve spent these past few decades in Europe, at various locations,” you add eventually.

“But it wasn’t happy time.”

“Not really, no.” You glance down at your left hand. “Bunkers. Ice, missions, some cells after debriefing, then the ice again,” you enumerate.

“I’m sorry we have to go back there.”

“Don’t worry… I don’t have many good memories left in America anyway.” You have a sad smile. “Except the new ones, with you.”

“Thanks.”

“So, how was Paris?” You ask to change the subject.

“Crowded. Smelly. It was hard to see its beauty behind all that pollution, you know.”

“It was different when I was there.”

“With the nazis and all that shit?” I say, astonished. I wonder how it was back then—I really like when you tell me about living in the past. It seems so different and yet, pretty similar.

“No, right after the Liberation when we were on leave for the first time in months. It was… Shortly before I fell.” You sigh. “At least I saw the Eiffel Tower before dying, uh?”

Each time you talk about your past, I realize a little more what you’ve been through. Soon after that, you’ll tell me about your shredded memories of that moment. Your fall from the train; the endless agony in the snow, beaten by harsh winds. Hope rising when people found you, only to be replaced by a much worse nightmare. Despair, excruciating pain, and then… Nothing.

You weren’t even allowed to have feelings. All living creatures share that essential component, but you were denied it—in the most literal sense. Only fear was allowed. You showed signs of defiance, refusal or worse, you started to have a personality again? You were tortured without further ado. And you couldn’t fight such a system. No one could have.

Back when I was living with my parents, feelings were a thing to repress, to hide, to conceal. To my father, they were the useless manifestation of our weaknesses. So for a long time, even after I murdered him, I had convinced myself I didn’t need feelings at all and I had to be strong and I lived like… Like a robot or something. Being repeatedly told such statements from a young age did that kind of damage.

So I can’t fathom how it must’ve been for you. Even today, I can’t believe you were able to break free from that cage. And how horrible it was to know your chains were still bound to your ankles; invisible, but ready to bring you back the moment you’d be captured.

“Maybe one day we’ll go back there,” I suggest to cheer you up. “Or anywhere else in the world, where you want. We’ll visit beautiful places and stuff.” And make good memories along the way.

“Could be nice,” you concede with a nod. “But I doubt we’ll survive long enough for that.”

The thing is, you might be right.

 

Half an hour after we arrive to Poland, our stolen plane starts to give signs it’s running out of gas, battery or whatever this damn thing needs to work.

So we land it in the middle of a forest near the border with Ukraine and Belarus; it won’t stay hidden long, but hopefully we’ll already be miles away when it’s found. Before leaving, we stuff our bags with all the supplies we can find; protein bars, mostly, and a good amount of first aid items.

The evening later, we take a break in a town nearby to change our money and get some more supplies at the local grocery. I can’t read any of the words written on the products so I let you pick most of what we need, while I focus on getting rice bags and pasta without looking suspicious.

I’ve been lacking identity papers for most of my life, however entering illegally a foreign country without even speaking the language makes me damn nervous. I’ve never been so close of being apprehended. Fortunately, you can speak Polish like it’s your native language, and I keep a polite, distant smile while you chat a minute or two with the cashier.

There’s an immense gap between the way you behave when it’s just the two of us and the mask you put on when we have to interact with strangers. Kinda like how I am acting myself—pretending to be at ease, self-confident all while feeling like an outsider most of the time. You’re a shapeshifter in your own way. No wonder why we get along so well.

That night, we sleep in an old, abandoned barn in the outskirts. Endless wheat fields and pastures; it’s more of a farming area than a town now, and we’re able to find the quietness we both need.

I can tell we’re on a barn owl’s territory: I’ve found feces and pellets filled with small bones. Once we’ve installed our rudimentary bed on top of a pile of hay, I turn into an owl myself to find her and ask her about the local hazards.

She’s standing on the highest branch of an oak tree. She’s not pleased with my presence on her land, but she answers my questions nonetheless:

 _“Danger here?”_ I screech.

 _“Cats.”_ She runs her beak on her right wing’s feathers. “ _Ate my young last summer.”_

I know it’s sad, and I feel bad for bringing up bad memories, but I really need her insight.

 _“Many men coming here?”_ She tilts her head; she doesn’t understand my question. “ _Hunters?”_ I reformulate.

_“No.”_

Tired of my obstinacy, she flies away before I can learn more. I get it: we won’t receive any help down there. God, I miss my woods already.

“We should be okay here, at least for tonight,” I explain you once I’m back.

You’re huddled in the hay, observing the fields outside by a hole in the wooden wall. Your left hand absent-mindedly fidgeting with your knife. “We should lay low, Jules,” you mumble without even looking at me. It kinda sounds like a reproach but it must be my imagination.

“Yeah.”

“Can you—” You change position to lean on your side, unable to hold back your uneasiness. “Can you stay inside now?”

“Sure, I wasn’t going to leave anymore. Get some rest, sweetheart, you earned it.”

You’re so exhausted that, despite my own weariness, I let you sleep and watch over you until dawn shows up.

 

It must be five in the morning, now, and it’s still dark all around. Time for us to set off again. We’re leaving the outskirts to god knows where when they get us once again.

It happens so fast—I can barely remember it now. It feels like a bad dream.

A sting on the nape of my neck. Thinking it’s a mosquito or something since we’re close to a river, I raise a hand to chase it away, only to find a small dart. _Oh god._ Gotta be a joke.

I pull it out but it’s already too late. The world is swinging around me. Black dots swarm over my sight, and my tongue is already getting numb.

“Bucky—,” I choke, and I fall unconscious in the grass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Bucky hums in the aircraft is [L'hymne à l'amour](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QvHph2zrMrA) by Edith Piaf.
> 
> I'm not sure I'm gonna be able to update next week because I'm going to Paris (and like Jules I don't think I'll enjoy the trip very much, but whatever). I'll do it as soon as possible. ♥


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit sex scene near the middle of the chapter.

_Somewhere on a road, Ukraine, April 2015_

 

A low, rumbling sound. My cheek is resting on something soft. Smells like old dust and gasoline. I can barely feel my legs and my arms, and my head is throbbing with pain. I open a drowsy eye; everything is blurred. I'm dizzy. Nauseous.

_Where am I?_

Once my sight starts going back to normal, I lift my head up, carefully—I don’t know what to expect. As my gaze falls on the back on your head, a strong sense of relief overruns my nerves. You're driving. It's a car. I'm lying down on the rear seat.

“Buck,” I mumble.

You glance up at me through the rearview mirror. “You're awake,” you whisper, your shoulders unwinding all at once. “How are you feeling?”

“Numb. Headache. Feels like I’m drunk. Where are we?”

“Ukraine. I stole a car.”

“You can do that too?” I say in a sleepy voice. I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. The road, your face, everything is so hazy. The only thing I can tell: It's daytime, and it's raining.

Ukraine. How did we fucking pass the border?

“I can do a lot.” You shrug, uneasy.

I notice the keys dangling under the wheel. “Where did you get that car?”

You throw me a look that says “please, don’t ask” so I fall silent, unsettled. You’ll tell me later that you didn’t kill the car owner but he probably got a big bump on his head after you knocked him out. Poor guy.

“Where are we going?”

“South. Rest for now, Jules, you need it.”

“But you don't have a license,” I realize and I start laughing nervously. I’m being high as fuck. “What happened?”

“They found us again. Shot you with tranq darts. I think they know you can shapeshift since the last attack and they took no risk. Didn't work on me though. But that was close.” In fact, you look a little sick, pallid and your lips shut tight as if you're holding back an unpleasant feeling.

“What the fuck... How did you get us out of there?”

“Same way as usual.” Your lips tighten even more and I put a trembling hand on your shoulder. “Our stuff in is the trunk.”

“Okay,” I say, dozing off. “Thank you, Buck.”

You stretch your right arm backwards to brush my thigh. “Go back to sleep now. You need to process the drugs.”

“Okay,” I repeat. I'm already half-asleep, slouched over your seat.

 

 ——

 

The full moon is high when I wake up again. You're still driving—focused on the road and its surroundings, you don’t notice I’m no longer sleeping. Sitting up with some difficulty, I greet you with a kiss on the temple. You allow yourself to give me a faint smile and ask if I'm feeling better. I am, I think. It’s a miracle I manage to climb over the passenger seat to settle at your right.

“Aren't you tired of running away?” I ask after a while, eyes lost on the bleak landscape. Under the moonlight, I can see miles and miles of meadows, fields and small farms.

“What else should we do?” You ask back, voice low and sullen.

“I dunno. We could fight back. Take them down. Once and for all.”

You let out a muffled, wry huff. “We can't possibly do that. And just the two of us... No way.”

“But we could—“

“No.”

“Even if—“

“No!” You snap. I gape at you, kinda startled by that sudden display of anger. It’s so uncommon I’ve come to think you can never really get upset. Your hands are shaking on the wheel. “Listen. You saw the news last year. What happened. They’re looking for me. Hydra, whoever is after us... It has no end. They’ll never stop chasing me.” You shrug, uneasy. “I don't wanna fight anymore. I’ve done enough wrong. If I get caught again, it will start over and—” You look like you've got a sudden, bitter taste in your mouth.

“I'm sorry,” I say, sheepish. “I shouldn't have mentioned it. It was stupid.”

“Don't be. It's not your fault.”

A heavy silence settles between us. We're both tired as fuck. You've been driving for hours without a break and I think I'm having trouble eliminating the drugs from my blood. Besides, we're being anxious—or should I say, scared to the bone. So arguing is the last thing we need right now.

_We never really thought about our destination_ , I tell myself with a knot in my stomach. Europe is big. Judging by the confident way you’re driving, you've got something in mind, however.

“So, where do you wanna go?” I ask cautiously.

“I was considering Romania. I speak the language and it's the kind of country where people don't ask too much questions, if I recall correctly. What do you think?”

I rub the back of my head, thoughtful. To be fair I'm glad you’re taking my opinion into account. Cause lately, I’ve been feeling like I was on the passenger seat of my own life, and I hate that.

“I've never went there,” I say. “It could be nice. I've heard there are a lot of old forests, right?”

“Yeah. Carpathian mountains. You miss the wild?”

“A lot. It’s been so long. And it's spring now... The best time of the year.”

Let just hope those mountains won’t be too different from America, because I’m not sure I can handle surviving in an entirely foreign area.

You hum softly. “Let’s go there, then. You'll have to learn Romanian though, if we're to blend with the population.”

“Is it hard? I know some Spanish and French already but...”

“I'll teach you. We can start tomorrow.”

“Can't wait,” I say with a faint laugh. I lean on the left, resting my head on your shoulder.

 

I'm bored and tired of drowsing every once in a while, so I decide to turn on the radio, fiddling with the button until I can find something interesting. Ukrainian pop songs, a radio talk-show I can't understand... Ah. The third one is much better.

“Rock classics!” I say happily. I turn up the sound.

“What's that?” You ask, tilting your head.

“Wait, you don't know about it? Queen, Jimi Hendrix? Janis Joplin? No? Oh shit, of course you don't, I'm such an idiot. It's the best music in the world, man!”

I try to explain it to you as best as I can. You don't seem convinced at first, because it's completely different from what you used to dance on when you were young.

“Just listen to the rhythm and the melody,” I say.

When _Ziggy Stardust_ starts playing, you follow the slow beat with your fingers. “That one's not bad,” you say, a light smile on your face. “Weird lyrics though.”

“I know, right?” I say, humming to myself. That song brings some good memories with it.

Soon we're singing along together; you're killing the lyrics so bad it's hilarious, and I end up crying from laughter. Damn—it feels good.

But a crippling sense of guilt suddenly taints the moment. “I'm sorry. I'm distracting you from our goal,” I admit, dead serious.

“It's bad?”

“It's dangerous. We're not focused anymore.”

The radio is now airing a much quieter tune. Soft guitar riffs, like a ballad.

“But I like it, I think. It makes me feel... better, yeah. It's something else than just pure survival. Like I'm living a real life. If I stop thinking about it, even just for a minute, it's like nothing ever happened at all.”

_“I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone; all my dreams pass before my eyes, a curiosity—,”_ the music starts.

I rest my hand on your knee. You need that, I understand and I'm glad to be able to help for a change, but...

“They could get us again if we're not careful enough,” I say, grim.

“I won't let that happen. I promise.”

“I know.”

_“Now, don't hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky; it slips away—”_

“We don't know how long we'll be able to stay safe and sound, so... Let's enjoy our life as much as we can now, don't you think?” You say slowly. It's like you're trying to convince yourself as well as me.

_“Dust in the wind; all we are is dust in the wind.”_

My gut tightens as I hear these lyrics. For some reason, it makes me feel like I’m gonna cry. They’re familiar to me, but now they’ve got a weird ominous vibe I had never noticed before.

“Yeah. You're right.” I sigh and I start playing with your long hair, braiding and unbraiding it. As long as you’re with me, everything will be okay, right?

Music keeps accompanying us, breaking the journey's monotony. Unfolding its pitch black ribbon ahead of us, the road to our undefined destination stretches out. An endless line. _Whatever life has planned for us, we'll face it together_ , I promise myself. I turn on my side to watch you closely, fascinated by the way moonlight highlights the noble curves of your forehead and your nose. So unique. Not to mention your lips—I could die for them. And you've got such a sweet gaze, with these long eyelashes I’ll never grow tired of. Every single inch of you is beautiful, Buck, and it's not just about your features and your body; it's your mind, too, your personality, how you speak and you think, how you care about me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.

It’s an evidence: I don’t deserve all that. I don’t deserve you.

I’m pretty sure every person you've met before must've fallen deeply in love with you, just like me. The way you make me feel can't be described only with words. It's so much. Overwhelming. Amazing.

_“Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon, though down this road we've been so many times;_

_The grass was greener; the light was brighter;_

_The taste was sweeter; the nights of wonder; with friends surrounded;_

_The dawn mist glowing; the water flowing; the endless river; forever and ever—”_

As you just said—I should enjoy it, drown myself in it, before it becomes nothing more than a faint, fond memory.

 

At a crossroads, we engage on a small trail that leads to a thick pine forest. Even the moon doesn’t lighten the underwood.

“We need to rest,” you announce before turning the car off, and the night engulfs us. A fox is yelping in the distance. Looks like it’s mating season down here too.

“You wanna sleep in the car?” I ask.

“No. Let’s find a spot.”

It doesn’t rain anymore, although the weather’s humid as hell. It’s gonna be awful to sleep there, but it’s not like we've got a choice. We get out to stretch our legs for a minute and make sure we're all alone, then we get back in the car to grab our stuff. It’s not long before we manage to stumble on an acceptable place to rest.

“Hey, look,” I whisper. “A cabin.”

We approach it quietly. It’s desert and probably abandoned since forever, but those moldy planks are still standing up. And it’s dry, for the most part.

We both figure it would be unwise to start a fire. Plus, it’s not so cold this night. So we eat our rations in the dark and we get clean with cold water from our bottles. After we unroll the sleeping bags and zip them together—just like old times—, you take me in a tight hug.

“I thought we wouldn't make it,” you confess, sighing and stroking my back firmly with your palms. “That I'd lose you to them.”

“But I'm here,” I murmur. “You saved me. Again. Don't make a habit out of it, I'm not a freaking damsel in distress.”

“What, you don't wanna be my beloved princess? Such a pity,” You burst out laughing as I aggressively start tickling you with a low grumble.

“Stop the bullshit, you ass!” I warn. Dying of laughter, you eventually start tickling back. After a minute of struggling, we end up tangled together on the bag, breathing fast.

“ _Te iubesc,_ ” you whisper, eyes wide, voice wobbly.

I frown. “What was that?”

“Your first Romanian lesson. Means “I love you”.”

“How did you pronounce that?” You say it again, slower. I smile in the dark. “Then, uh... _Te iubesc_ , Bucky.”

You run a finger down my chest. “Hm. Not bad. We gotta work on that American accent, alright?”

I repeat it, until you're satisfied enough with my pronunciation. I suspect you're playing with me a little bit, by making me say it out loud over and over. But I like that as much as you do. I ask you to teach me a few words and sentences—it's a beautiful language, especially when you're the one who’s speaking it.

“And how would you say... “I wanna make love with you all night”? I'm just being curious.”

I can almost hear your grin. “Curious, uh?”

“It’s only for science, I swear.”

You cup my head and approach your lips to my ear, whispering lowly: “ _Vreau sa fac dragoste cu tine. Toată noaptea._ ” A strong shiver goes down my spine and settles between my legs. Ignites a lustful fire in my groin. The way you say that, with a deep, slightly hoarse voice, is porbably the most sensual thing I’ve ever heard.

“I'll never be able to repeat that,” I chuckle, flushing.

“Then I'll say it until you can, even if it takes all night.” And you actually start doing it, putting your hands and your lips all over me, perfectly aware of the fact you're driving me mad with your words and your touch.

On a whim, I pin you on your back to straddle you, removing those unnecessary clothes you’re wearing. I manage to pull down your trousers and underwear at the same time and I let my mouth explore the smooth skin all over your stomach, then lower, lower; you sigh and writhe under my tongue, lifting your hips so I can take you in my mouth _even_ _more_.

Is it relief that makes me feel so eager? The drugs in my blood? Hell, we hardly had any time for intimacy since we fled from Tennessee. It was frightening but we escaped once again, it's a damn miracle, and I love you so much I want to spend the rest of my life making love to you like that; all you want, all you need, I'll offer it gladly.

I'm still high from yesterday, right?

It may be a first lesson, but I learn a lot of interesting words that night, such as “ _din nou_ ”, which means “again”, “ _mai repede_ ”—faster—, “ _nu te opri, te rog_ ”—don't stop, please—and a few dirtier sentences that I won’t write down there. Delicious. It sounds like honey on your tongue.

I'm gonna be quite good at this new language, it seems.

At some point, you put a metal finger under my chin to lift my head up and say “my turn now, pretty boy,” then you carefully shove me against the ground as I shift into a man for you and, oh my god, that mouth of yours is gonna be my loss. If only I could see your face, your lips, your tongue; but we gotta keep a low profile because we're not far from the main road and we're still in danger. In that moment, I don't care about it anymore. The only thing that matters right now is the way your tongue runs up and down—

“Wait. Wait—” I pant, clutching at your hair.

You stop, only for an awful second, “Say that in Romanian, love: _Așteaptă_ ,” then you start doing that thing on the head with your lips; where the hell did you learn that? And I find myself moaning and writhing from pleasure. So much for discretion.

“ _Așteaptă,_ ” I stammer as best as I can. “Bucky, I'm gonna—”

Against all odds, it only encourages you to grip my hips tighter and you start moving your lips  faster. This is insane. I can't contain myself anymore. I let out your name once, twice, trying not to thrust too hard in your mouth. You raise your face to glance up at me once you’re sure you’ve got every single drop, before diving down to kiss me, frantically. My own taste on your tongue, how hard you are against my thighs, it’s enough for me to push you on your back once again and resume what I was doing in the first place. A few more seconds and it’s your turn to fill my mouth with what feels like a hot, almost divine nectar, grabbing my hair with your two hands while your whole body arches and an irrepressible shout echoes in the night.

A long silence falls over us. As we process what just happened, an owl startles us by giving off a long shriek in the tree right above us. He’s angry because we scared off all his preys.

“I love when you say my name like that,” you admit after a long, satisfied sigh.

I laugh. “And you love what you just did, too? Tasted good, huh?” I put my forefinger on your chin.

“Hell yeah. I'mma dirty boy, y'know.”

The way you say it—with your old Brooklyn accent—sends another rush of desire between my thighs.

“I thought you'd be disgusted. That's why I tried to warn you,” I explain, embarrassed.

“Nah, it was great. I'm gonna do that once a day starting now.”

“Fine, go ahead,” I tease. “But then I'll do the same to you. Twice a day.”

“Poor me,” you snort. “So you enjoy that too? You never told me.”

“Usually no, but if it's you, Bucky...  How could I dislike it?”

“Well, I'm flattered.”

I scoot over, yawning, to settle comfortably on you.

“You wanna go to bed now?” You ask in a sleepy voice.

“Yeah. I'm dead.” I grab the blanket from my bag and spread it on us. It will be much colder in the morning. I lay a kiss on your forehead, and I’m pretty sure my lips leave a little, filthy cum stain above your right eyebrow. “Good night, Buck.”

“ _Noapte bună, iubițel._ ”

I'll ask you what it means tomorrow.

 

The next day, you let me take the wheel since I’m feeling way better. The road twines between old, dense forests and tiny villages. It’s been years since the last time I drove a car so we’re going slow. Besides, no need to draw local attention by rushing down the way.

Playing safe, we make a lot of detours until the sun is setting in the distance. I start relaxing once the light decreases. In the night, I feel like we’re less exposed.

“Hey, look at that!” I point my finger at the end of the road. You straighten your posture with a soft gasp.

Flashing blue lights reverberate on the damp road right after a turn. A police roadblock, or something else? We can’t allow ourselves to take any risk.

“Stop,” you say. I slow down the car, you lean forward to take a better look and your left hand grips the dashboard. The old plastic whimpers under the pressure. “Turn around!”

I obey without a word, my heart throbbing in my chest; we drive in silence until we engage on a smaller way at a crossroad, in the opposite direction of the lights we saw. After half an hour, we end up in a small town, where we park the car on a supermarket parking lot, grab our stuff, lock the doors and throw the keys in the grass nearby. They're most likely covered with our fingerprints, but whatever. We’ll be long gone when someone finds them.

After that, we walk for what seems to be an endless amount of time. It must be close to midnight when we finally stop for the night, in the woods, near a freezing cold spring at which we refill our bottles and wash up roughly. Sleeping at the same time is not an option anymore, so I take the first turn, continuously toying with your hair in hope you’ll eventually grab some rest.

Flustered, I keep throwing looks around, tensing up at every sound; this isn’t my good old forests, I’m feeling very disoriented, and I can tell without a doubt there are a lot of predators down there. Wolves, bears, who’ll certainly notice we don’t belong here. Knowing full well how the latter can be annoying and fearless, I’ve hung our bags to a tree branch, high enough so they won’t try to steal our food or worse, attack us to get it.

Mumbling in Russian, you keep turning and tossing against me. I’m used to it, but right now... It’s worse because you’ve taught me some words, hence I can understand a small amount of what you’re saying.

And it’s horrible.

The sinister night, the fact I’m far, far away from my land and your relentless begging are starting to make me feel like shit. Yesterday’s relief is gone for sure. So I sing to you for a while; even though it’s merely a hushed whisper, you become less and less agitated as I pour the soft verses into your ear:

_"Tell me that we'll always be together, w_ _e'll be riding horses all the way;_  
_Cause boy I feel that men are meant to be m_ _ore than the shadows of each other._

_This road is finally standing up to the sky, b_ _oy we're free;  
So what is fate to say h_ _ow things are gonna turn out now?_

_If storms are breaking over great escapes, b_ _oy, we'll find how to make it with the rain;_  
_This rage will lead us through the burning plains;  
N_ _o matter what they say, we're heroes, boy we'll get to break out._

_Now we're finally standing up to the sky;_  
_Look at me, boy, what is fate to say h_ _ow things are gonna turn out now?_

_Can't you see that we're dead until we wake up, a_ _ll your dreams are about to happen now:_  
_We are racing to the break of dawn."_

When it’s eventually time to wake you up, I welcome sleep with more joy than I should, and I hold you tight in my arms. Your left hand doesn’t leave my shoulder—you know me well enough to realize my mood is at its lowest.

 

——

 

After a few days without being chased down anymore, we begin to relax at last. Looks like they’ve lost our tracks, at least for now. One evening, we walk by a big Ukrainian city—Lviv, if I remember correctly—to change money again and grab some more supplies. Thanks to that time with the homophobic douche and the money I stole from him, we won’t get in trouble before a long time. A blessing in disguise, don’t you think?

It’s a beautiful place, very different from where we both come from. We take our time to visit the city center—ancient paved streets and colorful facades. It practically feels like we tourists on a tour.

But when it’s time for us to leave, we walk until it’s past midnight and we’re in the countryside again. Sleeping in town in a cheap hotel isn’t an option, not when we can have a starry sky as our roof and nocturnal animals as neighbours instead.  


We’ve stopped in a pleasant clearing for the afternoon. That forest feels welcoming after so many days spent treading on dirt roads alongside monotonous fields. For the first time since an eternity, we were also able to wash in a small, clean river in which we also found the biggest trouts I’ve ever seen.

Since my wrist is almost completely healed and the pain has been reduced to a slight discomfort, you’ve finally decided we should make good use of these throwing knives we picked in the stolen aircraft. I have to admit, I was missing your fighting lessons.

Using a piece of charcoal from the campfire, I draw a rough shooting target on the largest birch tree I can find in the clearing.

You give me a demonstration first, so I can learn how it has to be done. I’m fascinated by the way you sling the small blades, with just a precise flick of the wrist. And maybe I shouldn’t, maybe it’s wrong, but I can’t help but admire the elegance of your gestures, the waving of your hair with each blow, your sharp eyes on the target. A deadly beauty.

“Your turn now,” you announce after picking up the blades on the tree.

“Like that?” I try to mimic your posture and your moves. My first knife ends up in a bush, several feet away from our target.

“Almost.” You get closer to correct my stance; your hands linger on my waist for a suspicious amount of time. “Stay firm, and keep that position up until the decisive moment,” you murmur, your cheek brushing mine. “Then release it all at once, in just one move.”

“Is it me or this sounds a lot like a sexual innuendo?” I ask, and I raise a flirty eyebrow at you.

You give me a little shove, snorting. “Stay focused, silly. In a real fight you must never let yourself be distracted.”

Easier said than done. All my attempts fail lamentably except one: the throwing knife barely scratches the tree bark. Still, it’s getting closer. But not enough in my opinion.

“At this rate, I’ll be fifty years old before I hit that fucking target.” I shake my head, feeling useless. This isn’t going anywhere.

“You can’t master it on the spot. Keep training, and once it gets easier, try using your other hand. You’ll see the difference, trust me.”

“Wait, you can do it with your left too?” I say, amazed.

“Yeah. Look.”

You take four knives in your right hand. The first one hit the target right in the middle. The second ends up just an inch above the first. And it took you like, three seconds?

“Stop showing off,” I say. I must say I’m being a little bit jealous.

The hint of a smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Me? Never.”

When you’re about to throw the third knife, your left hand twitches with a buzzing sound, your fingers open by themselves and the blade falls down at your feet.

“Dammit!” You lift your metal wrist in front of your eyes, wincing as if it was hurting.

“What’s wrong?”

“My palm. It’s malfunctioning.” You try to close your fist but it stays stuck in a half-open position. “Feels like something is jammed inside, just beneath the fingers. It must have happened the last time we were under assault.”

What the hell happened that day exactly? I’ll never know for sure.

“Oh no. It’s broken? How’s that even possible?”

“It’s not broken, not exactly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I thought it wasn’t serious.” You sigh, frowning. “I was wrong.”

“How do we repair it?” I ask, thinking fast. There’s gotta be a way, right? I don’t wanna imagine what it’ll be like if your left arm no longer works.

“It think we’re gonna have to open it, remove the insulating coating, and find a way to fix whatever is doing that.”

I take your palm in my hands. The jerking, irregular motions of your fingers are rather unsettling. “But how? I don’t even have a screwdriver.”

“We won’t need that. I know how the plates can be extracted, they—” Your lips twitch nervously. “They used to put it back in place all the time because I kept messing it up. Sometimes, while I was awake, they’d even remove all the plates to clean the dust and blood and work on the inner layers.”

While you were awake. Okay, this is so fucked up. You stare at your hand as if it’s some sort of disgusting insect.

“We have to do it now before it gets worse,” you add, swallowing down.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” you reply.

“Alright, then.”

I start picking up the throwing knives. This whole situation is concerning, to say the least—and it’s not like we could get some help. It’s way more complex than the time I had to help you with your dislocated shoulder. I’ve never been good at fixing stuff. Building a shelter, crafting snares, knowing one plant from another, that I can do.

But fiddling with a goddamn robot arm? That’s a whole other level, really.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The three songs in this chapter are [Dust in the Wind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tH2w6Oxx0kQ) by Kansas (and I swear I actually wrote that part _before_ Infinity War was released), [High Hopes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGBM5vWiBLo) by Pink Floyd, and [The Great Escape](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NxNIT5hM8c0) by Woodkid.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mild upsetting scene in the beginning of the chapter and depiction of animal abuse (non-graphic) near the end.

_A sunny glade, Ukraine, April 2015_

 

“So. How the hell are we gonna proceed?”

You’re sitting down in the grass, your left arm laying on a fallen, moss-covered tree trunk, your palm open with the fingers spread out. The metal is daintily gilded by the afternoon sunshine. I kneel in front of you with a couple of basic tools; a small knife to lift up the plates, a sewing needle to adjust and fix the subtle and complex mechanisms inside if necessary.

“Let’s open it first,” you reply, tensing up your shoulders. You grab your left forearm, as if it was about to jump at my throat, like some erratic beast.

“You sure you gonna be okay?” I ask, brow furrowed with concern.

“Hm.”

Even though I’d really appreciate a clearer answer, I’ll take that as a yes. I begin to slide the blade under the plates, right in the middle of your palm. I move it slowly until the first plate unclips from its axis with a swishing sound and I put it carefully on the trunk next to you.

A faint nausea invades my gut as I remove the next plates. I’m aware I’m literally _disassembling_ you and I hate that, I hate the fact I’m doing what your abusers used to perform on you.

But it needs to be done.

“That should be enough, now.” Your voice is reduced to a feeble whisper.

Just as you told me earlier, there’s a layer of insulating coating under the plates. It doesn’t look like it can be easily removed, though.

“So that’s how it remains waterproof at all times,” I comment, caressing the black material with my fingertips. Surprisingly, it’s both soft and hard to the touch. Flexible but very sturdy. “Can you feel it?”

You nod. “There are sensors underneath. It’s very sensible.”

Well I hope it’s not an unpleasant feeling. “How do we go past it?”

Without a word, you begin to pull it out on your own, wincing as you try not to mess it up. It’s kinda like you’re skinning yourself. My nausea intensifies; I have to turn my gaze away or I’ll end up puking on you.

When you’re done, you tell me: “We have to make sure it’s put back in the right way afterwards, or else…”

Or else we’ll make things even worse. Got it.

The coating is spread on the side of your hand. At least you haven’t ruined it, it seems. Now we can see the inner parts—the skeleton, if I may say—of your hand. It’s made of metal parts mimicking the bones of a flesh hand, tiny wiring, highly intricate circuit boards and several other components I have trouble identifying. It’s like a futuristic clockwork or something. A technology I could never understand, and I doubt you actually know it’s supposed to work yourself.

You point at a spot in the middle of the mechanism: “There. Look.”

“I can’t see what’s wrong,” I admit.

You try to move your fingers and indeed, a gear-like component twitches and get stuck with a nasty sound.

“Oh, okay. Now what do we do?”

You take some time to examine your palm and think about the best way to proceed.

“Push it upward with the needle.”

I have a moment of hesitation, my hand hovering above yours. “Do you think I might get myself… Electrocuted or something? Because of the needle?”

You let out a soft, horrified gasp before gulping down with difficulty and shaking your head. “I—I don’t think so, no. But if… If you don’t feel like it, I can do it myself. I—”

_I’m used to it_ , you’re about to say. You’re about to fucking say it and I didn’t know yet at the time, but now... And my love, how distressing and triggering it must’ve been for you to even consider that option. I can hardly imagine.

“I’m gonna do it,” I cut, finally noticing your growing trouble. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you reply in a trembling voice. Of course you’re not, I can tell. This whole situation brings back very bad memories and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Using my free hand, I stroke your left wrist. “I’ve got you Buck. Don’t worry. It’s gonna be fine, sweetheart.” You close your eyes and breathe deeply, bracing yourself.

We work on your hand for maybe half an hour, taking breaks when you need to, progressing at a slow pace to reduce the risk of damage—up until we hear a clicking noise and the whole mechanism starts buzzing and whirring as usual. You move your fingers, opening and closing your fist without any problem.

We both let out a relieved sigh. “Fuck,” I leave, leaning my elbow on the tree.  

“Thank you so much, Jules,” you whisper. I rub your neck in a comforting gesture; a drenching sweat has stained your collar.

Putting the coating and the plates back seems easy, after that. The sun’s setting when we eventually finish it off. But you wanna make sure everything is back to normal, and for another hour, you keep practicing precise moves and stretches. Lost in thought, you keep your mouth shut tight as you inspect your hand closely, even when I try to get your attention.

That’s how I realize how important your prosthesis is to you. Despite the horrors it symbolizes, it is yours and you desperately need it now. You may hate it with all your heart, you’re still aware of the fact you must rely on it at all times. And as a matter of fact, it has saved us so many times I’ve lost the count.

I wonder how it felt when you lost it in Siberia. Horrible, to say the least. I guess it was kinda like reliving the moment you lost your arm seventy years ago—history repeating itself over and over and each time, you’re but a helpless spectator of your own fate.

 

——

 

Today, we’re walking on a tricky pathway amid pine trees. I’ve got no compass, but I can tell we’re going south—our approximate destination. At some point, I step on a wet root emerging from the dirt; my foot slips and I nearly fall on my ass. I let out a curse.

“Be careful, _iubițel_ ,” you huff, catching my arm. “Don’t twist your other wrist.”

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” I reply with an annoyed sigh, but I keep your hand in mine after that. “ _Iubițel_ …,” I repeat, thoughtful. “You keep calling me that name. It's Romanian, right? What does it means?”

You have a sweet chuckle. “It's a way to say my love or my darling. Beloved. You don't like it?”

“Yes I do. I was curious. Can I call you the same?” I ask.

“Sure thing.”

“Nice. How would you say it in Ukrainian?”

“ _Kokhana_.”

“Hm. Pretty. Russian?”

“You can say, uh— _Lyubimaya_.”

“Oh! I think I know the French one. _Bien-aimé_? Is that right?” The lessons I took during my high school years are so far away now.

“Yes. Polish would be _ukochany_. Swedish, _älskad_. And Spanish—”

“ _Amado_. Dude, how many languages do you speak exactly?” I'm impressed. I don’t think you’ve ever had to use these pet names over the last seven decades but you know them anyway, as if it was an innate skill.

“A dozen, at least.”

“How's that even possible?”

“They put it in my mind.”

Oh. I should've figured. “I can’t imagine having that much knowledge in my brain,” I say, shaking my head.

“But you can speak many animal languages, don’t you?”

“Yeah, kinda. But that’s not the same, Buck. I know that because my brain structure can be changed at any moment. It’s an immediate process, I don’t even notice it. And animals don’t speak only with words. They’ll use all their senses, and body language as well. Everyone could learn that if they bothered to pay attention.”

We engage on a steep slope. I shift the weight on my backpack on my other shoulder. It’s getting hot and sweat is gluing my tee to my spine. I knew I should’ve removed that damn coat earlier.

“But the knowledge remains after, when you’re human again,” you say.

“Yeah… That’s weird, uh?”

“Useful, given the kind of life you’re having.”

I nod. There are many species I’ve never met, there. Owls, badgers, rodents… If we’re lucky, I might even show you how it works when I acquire a new shape. You’ve never seen it yet, and it has nothing impressive—as I already explained you an eternity ago, I only have to put my hands on almost any given animal and I’ll be able to copy its form for the rest of my life, in theory—although I’m sure you’d appreciate the show.

The plants are different, too. I’ve taken a few sample of herbs and flowers I had never heard of. Some are in my books, some are unknown, and I’ve promised myself I’d get a local manual once we reach Romania; you should be able to translate it for me and I could learn some new, useful words at the same time. I can’t wait.

 

At the end of the day, we stumble on a half-eaten carcass in the middle of the path. It’s recent; the foul stench of fresh blood overruns our nose, and I can smell canine poop and piss all around the area.

“Well. Looks like these woods have a lot of wolves,” I tell you. “We should be careful around them.”

“I thought they never attacked humans?”

“They don’t. But if they smell the foreign wolf in me, they’ll be pretty pissed, let me tell you. I should avoid taking that shape at all cost.”

And that night indeed, we hear distant howling and barking. I keep my ears open but you know, it’s kinda hard to figure out what they’re saying. They might be quite identical to American wolves, the way they speak is completely different. Kinda like two languages who’d have the same roots but have been evolving separately for a long, long time. It’d be easier if I could just touch one of them, but I’m not gonna risk it.

What is sure, though, is that they speak about us at some point. They know where we are, and they’re being wary. Humans don’t linger for more than a few days in their forest, usually. We’re an annoying exception.

 

——

 

_A moonless night, Ukraine, May 2015_

 

I was worried about the wolves but it turned out they weren’t the biggest nuisance. The bears, however...

 

It’s the middle of the evening and we don’t feel like sleeping right away. You’re taking your time to undress me, and I’m slowly losing my mind under your soft touch and tender kisses, to the point I don’t realize I’m fully naked now. I’m lifting your tee over your shoulders, teasing you with quick pecks on your chest, when a snapping sound draws my attention.

“Wait. I heard something.”

You put your tee back and take a look around. It’s the new moon; we can’t see shit.

Something is moving through the bushes on our left. Something big, and if my instinct doesn’t fail me, then—

“A bear,” I whisper as I catch a glimpse of its face, of the campfire reflecting in its eyes, through the dense foliage.

Shortly after, it comes out of the shrubs to walk to our camp. We stand up, catching our breath. Your left hand is clutching on my elbow. Quivering.

“Jules…,” you whisper in a weak, hoarse voice.

Now that it’s approaching our camp, I notice it’s a big male and he’s sniffing the air with interest. The food, I understand suddenly. Right after we finished our dinner, eager to have sex, we forgot to deal with it and we left a good amount of leftovers with dirty plates near the fire. The bear lets out a sinister growl. He’s the intruder and yet, he’s acting like he owns the place. Typical.

“Shit! Move!” I hiss.

I push you behind me to face the beast. Groaning back, teeth bared, I try to be more intimidating than the bear. In vain. He keeps moving forward, determined to steal our food.  Why would he fear such a weak human? Small, naked, I’m aware I must display a laughable sight.

Okay, then. I can get bigger than him.

To his surprise, I turn into a kodiak bear right before his face. Bigger, stronger. _I bet you’ve never seen that_ , I think, gloating over his sudden fear. I start roaring at him; he growls back, lower, taking a few steps back, but he doesn’t run away yet—not a coward, it seems, even though I’m almost twice his size now. So I stand up on my feet and raise one of my paws in the air, threatening. My claws seem to make an impression: he turns around with a strangled grunt and starts running back to the bushes.

I don’t want him to try and bother us again so I chase him for a short while, just enough to give him a good scare. Once I’m sure he’s left once and for all, I come back to the camp and shift back as soon I as see you.

“Is it gone?” You ask faintly.

“Yeah.” My human vocal cords feel sore—the aftermath of having turned myself into a roaring beast. I may change my appearance at will but I still get some unpleasant consequences once I shift back.

“Thanks god.” You sit down on the sleeping bag, your arms around your knees. I slump down next to you. I’m so tired. And hungry. I grab a protein bar in my bag and devour it in three bites.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been dumb,” I say, chewing fast. “I shouldn’t have left the food within his reach.”

“You couldn’t possibly know it was here,” you comfort me, patting my neck.

I feel like a stupid fool. I’m supposed to be the one who knows about basic safety rules and yet, I forget it all the moment I’m about to get my ass dicked down by the love of my life. Damnit.

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault, Buck. I almost got us injured—or worse.”

“Let’s forget it, alright? We’re alive.”

“Well, at least it’s a good thing I happened to be naked at the right moment, huh?” Otherwise I wouldn’t have had enough time to undress and shapeshift.

“Maybe you should stop wearing clothes, then,” you suggest.

“Oh, I know you’d _love_ that!”

I can practically see your smug smile in the dark. With all that mess, we let the campfire die out. It’s nothing but ambers and feeble flames now.

“Where did you get that shape, by the way? That was impressive,” you say as I throw some twigs and branches in hope the fire will catch again.

“A few years ago, I decided to walk from the West coast to Alaska. There I found the biggest bears I have ever seen so far. Couldn’t help but get their shape.”

“Coming in handy.”

“I never thought I’d have to use it for this.” I sigh and I lie on my back, looking at the stars. I’m starting to feel cold. “I’m exhausted. Can we get some sleep now?”

“Here? Shouldn’t we move the camp?”

“He’s not gonna come back for a while, believe me.”

You agree to lie down under the covers with me, but I know you won’t sleep at all this night. I know what you think. What if next time, it’s more than just a bear? What if they find us again as we’re being distracted, and put an end to our journey once and for all?

 

——

 

“Sing me a song, _iubițel_ ,” I ask you, tired of the prolonged silence. It’s raining; even the birds are quiet this morning. I’m glad we bought these raincoats in a thrift store when we went to Lviv.

“I’d rather not,” you reply to my disappointment. “It might attract more bears. And more rain.”

“Oh come on, you don’t sing _that_ badly,” I tease. “Please, I’m so bored!”

“Alright, alright,” you concede, rolling your eyes at me. Wet strands of hair are escaping from your hood, dripping on your chest and sticking at your jaw.

You bite down on your lower lip, obviously struggling to remember a good song. You glance up at the sky; a rainbow is spreading its color over a vale on our right. Your eyes brighten and you take a deep breath:

_“There are such things, a dream for two;_

_There are such things, someone to whisper darling, you're my guiding star;_

_Not caring what you own but just what you are._

_“A peaceful sky, there are such things;_

_A rainbow high where heaven sings;_

_So have a little faith and trust in what tomorrow brings;_

_You'll reach a star because there are such things._

_“So have a little faith and trust in what tomorrow brings;_

_You'll reach a star because there are such things.”_

Good god, you have such a beautiful voice. It has nothing tremendous, but it’s so sensible, so authentic, so… _you_.

“Didn’t know you were the romantic type,” I comment after you’re done, sliding my arm around your shoulders.

“Well you should’ve seen me just before the war.” You have an amused, fond laugh.

“I’m sure you had a damn lot of success,” I say with a knowing wink. “Pretty as you are.”

And to think you have chosen me, with my ordinary face and my calloused hands and my blatant lack of charm—sometimes all this feels like a goddamn dream, even if it’s been a few months now. Even if I know you love me for sure.

“I used to go dancing every week,” you explain.

“Damn, you must be a great dancer then.”

“I’m sure you’re good at it too.”

I snort. “Me? Seriously? Oh no, I’ve never learned. When I was a teen, I didn’t have many friends to go out with and I wasn’t usually invited to parties. So when I wasn’t out roaming the wild, I used to lock myself in my room and listen to music all day long. Just to forget about how shitty my life was. Usual teenager bullshit. You know.”

But you certainly don’t, at least not the exact same way I did. Funny, how different our lives have been. Different priorities, different hobbies and an entirely different culture. And yet, they converge toward one another, being made similar by a curious and rather unfair destiny.

 

——

 

As we leave the pine forest, we stumble on a small, quiet valley in the middle of which a couple of farms are settled. They look damn old, like they’ve always been there.

We walk down a trail in the middle of a meadow; it’s covered with white, tall flowers. That could be wild carrots. Or hemlock. Not quite the same thing.

We decided to stop by the farms to ask for directions and advice. The locals are unlikely to know about you anyway. Still, you take your time to check the surroundings and make sure everything is okay before we knock on the main farm’s door, and it’s not long before a very old grandpa shows up, a surprised expression on his wise, wrinkled face.

Actually, those people are rather nice. An entire family who’s been living there their whole life. They welcome us with an unexpected hospitality and they even invite us to share a meal with them.

You pretend we’re American tourists looking for a long trip in the wild, while I smile politely. I’ve turned into a woman before we arrived to the farms, and I haven’t forgot to remove my coat—my plaid shirt reveals just enough to make sure they think I’m a girl. It will certainly avoid us some trouble if we act like we’re a regular and harmless straight couple; we’ve done it before.

Only one of them is quite unfriendly, a younger man who keeps staring at you with suspicion. I think he starts arguing about us with the elder at some point, a very assertive woman who quickly shuts him up. He leaves the farm after that and we don’t see him again.

Before we leave, the farmers give us an old map—that thing must predate the Soviet era, to be fair—and after saying goodbye we sit down on a bench near the last barn to plan our next move.

An old tabby cat suddenly jumps out of a pasture nearby and sniffs my hand, nonchalant but interested to meet some strangers. He must feel something he likes, because he starts purring like a car engine and curls against my lap in the small space between us.

“You’ve made a new friend, it seems,” you chuckle, scratching the cat’s head.

“All cats love me.”

“I’ve figured. Hey, what’s your name, furball?”

“He just told you, but I wouldn’t be able to translate it for you.”

We hear some turmoil next to the barn before us. There’s two horses in the pasture and a guy is trying to lead them to the building. But the first one doesn’t want to go back. It’s afraid of something. It’s snorting reluctantly and when its owner starts yelling and kicking it with a staff, it starts panicking.

It’s the unpleasant man I noticed earlier. The other horse neighs, worried for its mate, and come over to help it. It only makes the man angrier; he hits harder until the first horse eventually gets in the building and he manages to pull the second inside too. Horrified, we have no choice but listen to their screams. Terror and pain, kicking sounds again; they’ve been enduring that for a long time.

“Oh god—” I whimper, putting a hand on my mouth. “Buck, it’s not—we can’t—”

You frown at the guy when he comes out, disgusted as much as I am by his attitude. No doubt it’s bringing back some revulsing memories.

“We gotta go and free these horses,” I say in a trembling voice, already standing up.

“I don’t know, these people have helped us,” you hesitate, despite the fact your eyes are darkened by anger.

“But he’s—”

Something in my expression must be distressing, because you have a shiver and you grab my hand, squeezing tight: “You sure it's a good idea?”

“It's not. I know it's amoral, and it's unwise. But I can't let them like that. I… I can understand what they're saying, Bucky. I can't ignore it.”

You don't say anything for a while, lost in thoughts, before agreeing: “I think I get it too. I'll follow you, then.”

“Thank you. You can't imagine how much it means to me.” I lean and kiss you on the cheek, on the lips.

“So what's your plan?” You whisper, resting your forehead against mine after we eventually break the kiss.

“I say we come back at midnight. It'll be easy. Break the stables door. Let those two girls run free.

“They're females? Mares?”

“Yeah. You don't know shit about horses, do you?”

“I've always been a city boy, remember.”

I laugh. Oh, my sweet city boy. Do you miss your distant urban life sometimes? Do you really feel at home in the wild with me?

 

Eventually, it’s even easier than I thought it’d be. Thanks to your arm, the stables door’s lock gives way without resistance. The horses snort with concern as we sneak into the place and they become more and more agitated as we open their tiny stall.

“It’s okay,” I neigh at them quietly. I hope they can understand me. “We’re good humans. We’re here to help.”

They’re wavering and rolling their eyes, nervous—but they’re also listening. So I tell them about the bad man and the free life they can get if they want to, about endless meadows and peaceful days, while you watch the surroundings, ready to warn me at any moment.

The mares’ answer is rather unexpected, but hey, it pleases me a damn lot.

“They wanna come with us,” I explain to you, “so let’s grab a couple of saddles and some other gear before we leave that damn place.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah. Ever ridden a horse?”

“No.” Even in the dark, I can tell you’re freaking out. I pat your chest, reassuring.

“Well, I guess it’s never too late to learn.”

We find all we need on a shelf. Two saddles with their bags, covers, reins—but no bits, I hate those cruel things—and a few other things that’ll prove useful later. I quickly explain you how to put it together on the horses, before leading them to the exit. They’re quiet again; they understand they must be silent at all cost. I show you how to saddle up, and I get on the second horse. She’s younger and requires a trained rider.

Without warning, a dog starts barking and howling. We all freeze. A few seconds pass, then a window lightens in the nearest house.

“Shit. Let’s move!” I urge, and the horses follow my command.

“Wait!” You almost shout, but they’re already galloping on the dirt road.

“You okay there?” I ask once we’re out of sight, head turned back to look at you. You’re gripping at the saddle and the reins, shoulders tensed up, eyes wide open.

“I’m—surviving?”

I laugh loudly, maybe a little too much, and I ask the horses to slow down. We’re now back in the forest and nobody has followed us so far, so we should be fine. The moon lightens the path ahead; I let our horses walk side by side.

“You’ll get actual lessons soon, I promise.” I reach out to brush your cheek. You’re sweating profusely. “Well, that was quite an adventure, uh?”

“Since when are you a horse stealer?” You ask in a hushed voice.

“Since tonight, apparently. And you’re my partner in crime, remember.”

A low branch crashes right in your face and you curse, doing your best to keep your balance on the horse while removing tiny leaves from your hair.

“Keep looking ahead, and bend your head,” I recommend, trying not to laugh.

“Won’t forget that,” you promise yourself. “So. When did you learn to ride?”

“Well I was like, eighteen or something. It was shortly after I ran away. I ended up working at a ranch in the middle of Nebraska, pretending I was a young man looking for some experience. My job was to look after the horses, and the owner’s son taught me how to ride. In exchange I taught him how to ride me, if you see what I mean.”

“Oh my god.” You snort, shaking your head.

“I know, right? But he was my age. He was nice. He had a pretty ass—not as pretty as yours, though,” I add quickly with a grin. “He was the only gay dude in fifty miles around, and he was closeted.”

“Closeted?”

“His parents didn’t know. And when they found out eventually… Poor guy. I had to ran away and I never heard of him again. I wonder what he’s doing now.” I just hope he’s been able to live without secrets anymore.

A few moments pass in silence, only troubled by the horses’ pace and their regular snorting. They’re feeling happy—something they could never really have. Finally, they’re no longer subdued to their abuser. I let them lead the way: they can go wherever they want now.

“I was thinking,” I say after a while. “Feels like they’ve lost our track at last. But, uh… I dunno, if they wanted you so bad, they should be sending a whole army or something. Just a few guys with some rifles and tranq darts? Seriously, it makes no sense.”

“You’ve seen the news too. Steve is trying to take down Hydra all by himself.” A wry huff escapes from your lips. “They’re probably too busy laying low to send anyone else after me. Maybe…”

“Maybe it wasn’t them in Poland? When they tried to put us to sleep?” I ask.

“Hydra, Interpol, whoever… They wanted us alive that last time, so I guess we have some kind of value to them. By now they probably guessed you were of the unusual kind.”

“Yeah. But I don’t understand how they could know that. We left no evidence of my abilities back in America.”

“The half-eaten corpse of that pilot, maybe?”

“C’mon! Technically, I didn’t even eat him. But you’re right… Do you think they know all about me?”

Eager to steal that damn aircraft without getting myself shot at—or worse, letting them take you out—, I was pretty careless that time. It won’t happen again.

“Only thing I know is, we gotta be careful, and hide as long as needed,” you say. Which might be forever. We’re both aware of that depressing fact.

“Sure,” I agree anyway. “The mountains?”

You nod in the dark. “The mountains.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song being sung by Bucky is [There Are Such Things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNrGGnS0qh4) by Frank Sinatra.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: description of trauma reliving and past torture during the second scene.

_ A wildflower meadow, Romania, May 2015  _

  
  


Crossing the frontier between Ukraine and Romania wasn’t an issue. Actually, we didn’t even notice the exact moment we switched countries; we only realized it when we saw the first Romanian signs along a road. Since then, it’s only been forests, vast meadows, steep trails and a few isolated villages we avoided as much as we could. Thanks to the season, we don’t run out of food at all: the forest provides for almost all our needs. We were getting tired of boiled rice and insipid wheat anyway.

The sun’s going down behind the mountains when we take a break, mostly because the horses are hungry and we can barely feel our legs anymore after four hours of riding.

“Look at that view,” you breathe, astonished.

You take a few steps in the meadow. The warm, lazy wind is fiddling with your hair; it looks like shimmering gold under the late afternoon sun. The valley below is covered with a river of bright poppies and tall grass. It goes down between two high peaks, under which a narrow lake settles, peaceful and probably teeming with fish—maybe we should stop by that place tomorrow.

What a sight, indeed.

I join you and I slide my arms around your waist, nestling my chin on your left shoulder. Since we’re in the middle of nowhere, you’re only wearing a black tank top with grey jeans, your plaid shirt tied around your waist just in case. Your prosthesis is shining intensely. It’s blinding and hot as hell. I bet it’s bothering you but you never complain about it.

You smell nice, like hay and sun and sweat and dry moss. I drown myself in that familiar, overwhelming perfume for a long moment. 

You’re my world, and I wish we could stay like that until the end of time.

“I love you, Bucky,” I murmur into your ear.

As you lean into my embrace with a pleased hum, you spread your arms slightly, palms turned upwards. You close your eyes, breathing deeply. 

There you go, sweetheart. Enjoy the moment as much as you can. You deserve it more than anyone else.

A big grasshopper jumps on a weed at my right. A few butterflies are fluttering amidst the wildflowers, and I can hear the hard-working bees’ constant buzzing, the proud shrieks of an eagle in the distance. If this isn’t heaven, it’s the closest as we can get to it.

At least, it’s the most beautiful spring I’ve ever lived through.

A soft neigh catches my attention. I break the hug, reluctantly. “Fern says they’re ready to go on, but she suggests we stay for the night. The grass is particularly good here, it seems.”

You raise your eyebrows. “She just said all this?”

“Yup.”

“Let’s listen to the horse then.” You huff an amused chuckle and go back on the path to unsaddle Nettle. You brush her chestnut coat, mumbling affectionate words at her as you carefully remove the straps and the harness. 

You’ve proven yourself to be very good with animals and they seem to like you as well. I’m not surprised—you know, since you managed to gain my trust in less than a few days back then. All animals, even the wildest, are able to recognize a kind human.

You’re also a talented rider. Overcoming your fears, you’ve learned all you needed to know in short time. But it’s easy because we can actually communicate with the horses, unlike usual riders. I just have to translate what the horse are expressing to you, thus neither you or I have to force them to do anything. It’s better that way, for all of us. Most of the time, we settle for letting them lead the way, speeding their pace up when they feel like going for a run, stopping when they’re hungry. They’re good horses, and they definitely need some freedom.

Nettle wiggles her ears and lets out a soft noise, like a sigh. Then she starts rubbing her nose against your chest.

“What did she say?” You ask, scratching her neck.

“That you’re her favorite human.” 

You laugh and give her a friendly pat on the rump. “And that’s my good girl, right?”

Nettle is the younger mare and the daughter of Fern, who has a dark bay coat. I was planning on riding Nettle since her mother has a milder temperament, but she quickly chose you over me. You’re the one who gave her that name—and I love it. It suits her so much. 

“I still can’t believe you can talk with animals, just like that,” you admit, removing a twig from Nettle’s mane.

“It’s not so difficult. I might even teach you a few simple things, if you want.”

“Oh, I’d love to. I wanna chat with ravens just like you did last winter.”

I laugh. “That’d take years! You’d have to master the subtle and tricky art of bargaining.”

“C’mon, as I remember it, you just told them they’d get some food if they helped us.”

“And it took me like, one hour! They were so annoying.” I grin at you. “But they got their fresh meat anyway, huh?”

Your lopsided smile doesn’t reach your eyes, and my heart misses a beat—I’ve gone too far. “I’m sorry, Buck. I didn’t want to remind you of that—”

“It’s okay,” you cut, your voice devoid of emotion. You turn your back to me and lead the horses to a small grove that’ll make a nice shelter for the night. I follow you, sheepish, carrying the saddles in my arms.

That’s the problem with me. I always need to make a joke out of every situation I go through, even the bad ones, just so I can forget how it made me feel in the first place. But sometimes I fail to realize it can affect you too, and in a way I’ll never completely fathom. I don’t give a shit about what happened to those guys we killed, but you? Even though they belonged to Hydra and deserved nothing less than a painful end, their death conveys an entirely different meaning for you. 

And I just ruined your day by reminding you of it.

But you won’t mention it anymore tonight, and while you have a grave, distant expression for the rest of the evening, you act like nothing happened at all. You kiss me and hold me close just the same.

So yeah, once in a while, I actually make things worse. Because I can’t always understand you, because you don’t tell me much about your past—not that I require more details or anything, don’t be mistaken. Or maybe because in the end, I’m just a human who had forgotten how to speak human like I should. Who knows. 

I wanna be there for you, really. Make sure you can get a brighter side of life at last. But the truth is, I’m not even sure I’ll ever deserve you, Buck. I’ll never be good enough.

  
——

 

A thunderstorm. It’s raining mad; the horses and us are hiding under a rocky ledge but it manages to seep into the fabric of our clothes, on our skin, and I’d swear it’s reaching our goddamn bones too. We’re keeping the bags under our raincoats, afraid some water will manage to soak our stuff and ruin our dry food.

But the worst isn’t the rain, no. It’s the way your eyes widen each time a lightning bolt strikes the sky; the way all colors have deserted your face. You’re curling in on yourself, making yourself smaller, frozen like a white marble statue. 

In fact, you’ve got the same expression you had all the time back in those days in New York. You looked like a mess, and I’m afraid it might start all over again today. I do my best to cuddle you, pressing you against my chest, concealing your eyes from that nasty thunder. No doubt it’s bringing back your worst memories.

At some point, I can’t remind exactly when, you told me about the chair. That fucking thing, coming directly from hell—or a much worse place. I can only imagine it but I hate it anyway, and knowing you could be sent to it once again if you ever get captured, it’s terrifying.

So when the storm intensifies and you begin to quiver, I hold you even tighter, murmuring little nothings and encouragements in hope it’ll soothe you eventually.

It doesn’t.

“ _ Please, no,”  _ you beg in Russian; a very low supplication that fills me with dread.

“It’s alright, Buck, it’s over, they’re can no longer harm you,” I reply, but you don’t even hear me, reliving your memory like it’s happening now. Repeating your name over and over doesn’t work either. Your jaws are clenched, your fists are shaking and your brow is furrowed with pain and confusion.

I’m not a therapist, and I’ve never been good at helping people with their own issues—not to mention dealing with mine. While your mental health is my first concern, this goes far beyond my ability to help you. 

I mean, even the horses are concerned about you. Nettle burrows her nose in the nape of your neck, sniffing your hair with gentle neighs. And— _ oh god _ —it actually helps. You raise your hand to scratch her ears; clumsy, hesitant moves, but it’s a reaction nonetheless. She’s bringing you back to reality. 

Shortly after, the storms moves away from us. Once it’s reduced to a feeble, distant roar, you finally start to unwind, although you have that awful empty gaze. Nettle is now lying down next to you, her head resting on your lap—like a dog. Your left hand is mindlessly playing with her mane while the right caresses my lower back, under my shirt.

“See? We’ve got you, sweetheart,” I say with a kiss on your temple. Your heart is beating so fast I can practically feel is rhythm under your skin.

“Hm,” you mumble, your voice echoing in my chest. “Thank you.”

A long shiver runs down your back as a late lightning bolt strikes the skies. Seems like you’re not out of trouble yet. I wipe up sweat and matted hair from your forehead with my fingertips. I think you’ve been crying, too—but I don’t point it out. 

“How do you feel now?”

“Bad...?” You reply faintly.

Why did I even ask? I take your canteen from Nettle’s saddle and I hand it to you. You stare at it like you don’t even know what it is. 

“Drink,” I say. “You need it.”

You grab the canteen in a stiff, submissive gesture that reminds me a lot of how you used to behave. It’s been ages since the last time you did that—and I can’t say it’s good news.

To my relief, you take a long sip and when you’re done, your cheeks have already regained some colors.

“You know, the worst wasn’t the—it wasn’t the chair.” A wry smile clouds your features. “It was the way they laughed and sneered at me when they put it on.”

I frown, my blood running cold at the mention of what they did to you.

“You don’t have to tell me, Buck,” I assure you, a hand on your shoulder. I squeeze your collarbone. “Really.”

“But what if I need to?”

“It’s up to you, then.” I shrug. I could be selfish and tell you the truth: I don’t wanna hear that, it’s too much and I can’t handle such knowledge. But if I don’t listen to you, who will? If I can’t cope with your past, how can I expect it from you?

So I listen to you as the words spill out of your mouth, raw, more terrible than the thunderstorm itself.

“They were always watching me. Always… Didn’t matter who it was, cause it changed every time. New faces I couldn’t remember afterwards. But always—I was always stared at. Scrutinized. The missions, it was the only moment they didn’t watch. But then, it was worse… And they knew. They asked and I told them all I had just done for them.”

“I’m gonna kill those bastards,” I spit. “I’m gonna drag them down to hell and then I’ll—”

“They’re probably all dead anyway,” you cut before I can describe in full length the various ways I plan to kill them.

I just wish I could do something, anything, in order to make them pay for their crimes. Sink my wolf fangs into their throats, gut them and let them bleed to death, or eaten alive by ravens and foxes. And I’ll look them right in the eyes as I do so, just like I did with my father. Because they deserve the same fate than him—the same pigs, the same bastards.

But I guess we can’t even have that; and even if we did, would it be satisfying? I doubt it. 

“I don’t wanna remember,” you admit. “But it comes back anyway. I just want it to stop—”

“I know, love. I know.” 

“I wanna feel better.”

Acknowledging that need is a first step towards recovery. At least it worked for me, a long time ago. “You can do it, Bucky. It won’t be easy nor quick but you can do it.”

“It’s been almost one year already but sometimes I still feel like I belong to them.”

“You don’t belong to anyone except yourself.” I peer at you until your look back, ashamed, despondent. 

“As long as the trigger words are here,” you say, pointing at your head with your left forefinger, “I’ll never be completely free from them. And since there’s no way to make me forget them, the risk is real.”

“There’s gotta be a way....” 

You shrug. “No, we can’t. No even the chair could erase them.” A pause. “I thought about using it again, you know.”

“Bucky—,” I quaver, horrified by such an idea. 

“But I destroyed the one they had set up for my last mission. When I went back to the safehouse after Steve and I fell into the river.”

“You went back to them?” I ask. I didn’t know that. 

“Yeah. I know I shouldn’t have but… I had nowhere else to go, you see? Everything was so confused. And in a way… It was reassuring.”

A tense muscle twitches in your jaw. I can’t believe you did that and survived regardless. 

“And then I saw that thing and I knew I’d be sent to it again and I couldn’t, I just couldn’t…” Your lips tremble as the memory resurfaces. “So I wrecked it and I almost killed those guys.”

“They were from Hydra?”

“Yes. They were in charge of operating the chair and the cryotank.”

I scoff. “So why didn’t you do it?”

“I fucking tried… Jules, I wanted to do it. So badly. I had my hand around their throats, literally. But—I couldn’t.” 

I frown; it makes no sense and I can’t fathom why you wouldn’t get back at them when you had the chance. “Did they have another way to control you or something?” I ask.

“No.”

It takes me some time but I eventually come to think I can get your reasons: “It would’ve been like handing them the victory… That’s how it felt?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened after that?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want you to break down again because I pushed things too far. 

“I made them remove the trackers that had been put in my arm, I stole some civilian clothes and I ran away before they could call for backup. I figured I should walk to New York since it was where I was supposed to be born.”

“And we met shortly after.”

You nod with a thin, sad smile. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that. I don’t know what would’ve happened if we hadn’t found each other.”

I don’t even wanna think about it. My life took a rather unexpected but fortunate turn when you showed up. I mean, if we forget about the highly-trained professional assassins coming at us from time to time, I love the way I’m living now. Travelling with you is such a blessing—and yes, even when you’re at a low point like today. 

“We’re gonna make it,  _ iubițel,”  _ I promise you, and I kiss you for a long moment. I can feel the tension leaving your nerves as your tongue meets mine—shyly at first, but more and more demanding as time passes.

Fern snorts  a frustrated neigh. I break the kiss with a low, reluctant grumble.

“What did she say?” You ask.

“She’s tired of waiting. The rain is gone, why don’t we leave?”

You allow yourself a short, rasp laugh. “I guess she’s right.”

“You think you can walk?”

“Yeah. It’s okay, I’m not made of glass.” You stumble on your feet to Nettle’s disappointment, who was pretty happy with using you as a pillow. 

  
  


——

 

_ An odd path, Romania, June 2015 _

  
  


The weather’s getting hotter and hotter, but as long as we stay hidden under the trees, we can cope with it. The flies, though… I had forgotten how much living with horses can be annoying in the summer. At least, there’s no mosquitoes. Yet.

It would get worse if we decided to stop walking through the forest, though, so we keep heading to the middle of the mountain range. It’s so vast. And old. And wild. It’s been a long time since I walked through such a land. 

At some point that day, the path splits up. We decide to follow the smaller one; that way, there will be less risks of stumbling on someone, a local hiker or worse, some tourists.

The forest’s gossip, constant, accompanies us as we progress at a slow pace. It’s just background noise, and I’m used to it.

But when it disappears suddenly, it’s only a couple of seconds before I notice it.  _ Weird _ , I think,  _ there must be some predator out there. _

A heartbeat later, that feeling I’ve learned to hate hits me. I freeze, a cold shiver running down my spine despite the heat. The hair on the back of my neck stands up without warning.

The horses snort nervously, stamping, refusing to go any further. They’re telling me what I didn’t want to acknowledge: there's  _ something  _ utterly wrong ahead of us.

You try to encourage Nettle with gentle words; in vain. She turns her ear backwards, her eyes rolling madly.

“Buck. Stop.”

“What? What's happening to them?”

I put a finger on my lips.

“Let's go back, take the other path,” I mumble, eyeing our surroundings.

You frown, puzzled, but you follow me back anyway. 

My guts are tangled in an unpleasant knot; I know that feeling. We gotta hurry without letting anyone—anything—think we're running away. It would be worse. Don't show any fear or the hunters will get you quicker. And whatever I think dwells here is much faster than any wolf or bear.

We end up making a huge detour on the bigger trail. But it was worth the effort. Once the horses show less agitation and I’m sure we’re not being followed, we stop for the night under a dense weeping willow. It’ll hide us from most threats, I hope.

I spend an hour as an eagle and then another one as a fox, checking the surroundings, listening to the fauna’s chatter. We should be safe now. Yet both Fern and Nettle lie down next to us, closer than usual. 

“So, what was that earlier?” You ask me, still worried.

“Shh,” I reply, a finger on my lips. “Don’t speak too loud, please.” 

My voice is barely a whisper. I owe you some explanations; I lean against your cheek so you and only you can hear me.

“These woods are very old. There are... Things, down here. We shouldn't deal with them. Under any circumstance.”

“I don't understand.” You stare at me, confused. “We’ve been bothered by animals before but you’ve never freaked out like that. Even with that bear—”

“That wasn’t a bear. The horses felt it too.”

“Then what do you think it was? Some beast, or a monster?” You raise an eyebrow at me, doubtful.

“Yeah, maybe. Actually it could've been anything. Some things are worse than any creature you might encounter.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t really say… Anomalies. Places where time and space are altered and reality gets distorted. If you see anything that seems out of place, then you leave, no exception. You don't approach it, you don't tell anyone about it. People are stupid when it comes to creepy stuff.”

“How do I recognize it?” You’re eager to know, and I can guess why. If there’s any threat, you wanna be prepared to face it. It’s a good state of mind.

“Usually, it won’t belong to the woods. Buildings, random items showing up. Shadows at the corner of your sight. Even people, sometimes. If you're feeling very uncomfortable and nauseous all of a sudden, it may be a good sign you're in trouble. Your guts know better, because those things have been existing long before humans began to conquer the world. Legends and myths are there for a reason, after all.”

“Okay... Now you're frightening me.”

“I know right, I'm sorry about that. Figured you should know. I could avoid these places in America because I know where they're located for many of them, but here, hell, I don't know shit. I was surprised as much as you.”

“This is so weird. What’s causing this?” You ask.

“I dunno. There are a lot of things we don’t understand, even today. I mean, aliens, people who pretend to be gods and all that bullshit? It’s weird as fuck but I can get it. But  _ this _ is on another level.”

“It's the scariest shit I've ever heard, but you don't seem to be so afraid,” you say.

“I am. Just—I'm used to it. I've been living in the wild for so long, it's like, a part of the landscape now. And I'm kind of an anomaly myself. Haven't you noticed?” I grin.

“You’re less scary.”

“Uh, thanks?”

The fires crackles and draws flickering shadows on your face. Thoughtful, you stare at the dark surroundings. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned all that. Maybe you’ll hate the forest now.

“How do you know all this?” You ask after a while.

“Oh, you know... Wandering all the time and meeting other hikers, we hear some spooky shit. Also, I used to know someone who was into that kind of stuff. She was a… A witch, if I may say. One of the few who thought my abilities were cool. Ah, I miss her sometimes.”

“A witch…? Like—”

“Yeah. Seems odd, uh? She didn't have brooms or cauldrons, of course, but she owned a pretty wild collection of bones and skulls she’d found in the wild. It was so cool.”

“If you say so… Is this a twenty first century thing?”

I laugh. “Hm. Quite.”

“Oh my god.” You shake your head, a disbelieving smile on your face. “Did you two...?”

“Oh, yeah. But we never had sex. She wasn't into that sort of stuff. And during those times, I wasn't into it either.”

“I see. How was she?”

“Nice. Kind. Not as much as you, though. I was there when she threw some curses and stuff like that at men who’d been annoying her. I get why she did it though.”

“You loved her?”

“I... I think, yes. She was an outsider, just like me. Just like you, Bucky.”

I’m aware I keep trying to change the subject and talk about you instead. I don’t wanna think about the past. All I want to focus on is you, and my future with you. 

You have a faint smile and you throw a branch in the fire. “Why did you part ways?”

I’m not sure I wanna answer. It still hurts, even after more than four years. It’s the last person I had a significant relationship with, before you and I met. Meanwhile, I stopped trying to reach for other people. It was better that way. Less dangerous. And somehow, I did the right choice, cause in the end it allowed me to be in the right place, at the right time to meet you.

“It’s quite a boring story, you know,” I begin. “She wanted to move to England. In a city—London, maybe. And she wanted me to come with her. I didn’t. I refused to leave my forests for her and well, she didn’t appreciate that at all. She said I’d be able to visit the wild sometimes, and that there were beautiful landscapes too… But she couldn’t understand. It’s not the same.”

Your left hand brushes my cheekbone. It’s cold but comforting. I lean in, letting your fingers wander on my skin. That thing could kill me in less than a split second, and yet it’s so gentle.

“And when I told her I was, basically, a felon—without telling her what happened exactly, I’m no fool—and explained I had a false id but no other way to leave the country legally, she—” I sigh. “She accused me of lying to her the whole time we were together. She started freaking out so I fled, because I thought she was about to report me or something just like my sister had done, and I never saw her again.”

“That’s… sad.”

“Yeah. But I think she was just trying to convince herself she had a valid reason to move in without me. She couldn’t force me to come with her but at least she could leave without any regret. Anyway, that was the story of how I met an actual witch.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say, kissing me slowly.

A sudden crack startles us and we freeze, looking around. After a while, we hear a faint yelp. “It’s just a fox,” I laugh nervously. “So. Do you have any horror story to share too? Or a lover you’d want to talk about?”

You take your time to answer: “None that I can remember enough.”

“When you do—if you do, and if you want to tell me, I’ll be listening too.”

“Thanks.”

 

The next day, we hurry up to leave that damn area and I don’t think we ever mentioned that event again. It was way too spooky. Without warning, the forest gives way to an old road and we decide to follow it for a while. We cross several villages; they all look like they’ve been frozen in time in the last century. Beautiful. 

At a small grocery, we get a few supplies for the horses and us. It’s a real chance we were able to change money right after we crossed the border. I’m doing my best to speak Romanian with the locals but you don’t look convinced, and your lessons intensify after those brief encounters. 

We never feel safer than when we’re hiding deep in the woods, though. And I have to admit, despite my reluctance when we landed on that new continent, discovering new paths everyday turns out to be wonderful. Those mountains, they’re impressive. One day, we arrive at the edge of a new forest. It doesn’t look like the woods we’ve seen so far.

I stop my horse and dismount, taking a few wary steps towards the trees.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, frowning. You seem to be afraid it’s another no-go area, as you call it; I can’t blame you. I used to be creeped out too.

“This forest… It’s very old,” I explain, in awe, my voice low and dreamy. “Almost untouched.”

“How can you know that?”

“I dunno.” I turn to face you. It’s true. It’s a wordless feeling. A certainty. It dwells within the center of my soul, and I’m pretty sure all wild animals can experience it. “We should be careful, and never disrespect it. Only take what we need, no more.”

“Isn’t it what we’re already doing?”

“You’re right.” I chuckle and squeeze your leg before going back to Fern. An ancient path leads us along a cathedral of moss-covered boulders and trees that must be way older than you. It’s quiet, peaceful. Tranquil. I could stay there forever; but these woods aren’t for us. We don’t belong here, and we avoid hunting until we’re out of that area. In fact, I realize after a while I haven’t shapeshifted a single time since we started following that path. It’s weird—as if I didn’t want the forest to know who I really am. 

But it probably knows anyway.


	15. Chapter 15

_The cave, Carpathian Mountains, June 2015_

 

We find the cave a week or two after the old forest. We’re in the middle of June and most nights are really unbearable now, not to mention the days. I can’t believe it’s already summer time; I feel like we left winter just yesterday. But to be fair, we were quite busy the whole time. Time flies when you gotta hide from goddamn bloodthirsty nazis.

That place, it’s a freakin’ blessing. We were walking along a small river since a few days; that way, we could feed on fish and the small animals who come to drink at dusk and dawn. We were in the middle of nowhere, the weather was perfect, and that unexpected shelter we found by accident convinced us to stay for a while.

“Hey, look at that,” I say, pointing a finger at a small cliff overlooking the river on our left. It’s offering some tempting shade. “Why don’t we take a break and cool off for a while?”

“Good idea,” you reply, removing the strands of hair that are sticking to your temples. You only have a lightweight tee on your shoulders, but it’s drenched in sweat.

The horses prefer to drink at the river while we climb towards the cliff. Some fresh air, at last; I let out a long sigh and take a look around.

That’s when I spot the hole in the stone, just a few feet away.

“There’s a cave over there! Let’s take a look,” I suggest. I’m feeling adventurous.

“If we stumble on another bear, I’m gonna scream,” you joke, following me anyway.

“I thought we had agreed to never mention the bear incident again?” I laugh, but I take a quick glance at the opening, sniffing the air. No bones, no poop, no tufts of fur. “Nope. Nothing in here.”

“Thanks god.”

We take our time to explore. Right before the entrance, there is a flat area with a bunch of thick trees and bushes around; it’d be perfect for the horses, and the dense vegetation would hide them from above and below. How convenient. The main room is large, and it could shelter both the horses and us in case the weather goes bad, although I know they don’t enjoy having a roof on their heads: too many bad memories. Fortunately, I think it’s high enough to make a fire safely and we shouldn’t be bothered by sudden smoke overflows, provided we put it close enough to the entrance.

Right after the first room, a narrow corridor leads to a rift in the rock that has been carved over thousands of years by a spring. And what a treasure—I take some water in my hands and I drink it carefully. It’s pure and tasteless. If it doesn’t dry up during the summer, we might never run out of water.

After that, we take our time to visit the surroundings. Another trail leads up the cliff to a large meadow encircled by a large mountain forest. Several streams are running down the hill and flowing into the main river. I locate an interesting amount of animals tracks—deers, rabbits and partridges, mostly.

It’s a remote area—no hiking trail nor town nearby, and I hope we won’t get into trouble any time soon. But it’s also pretty safe. A concealed spot with an easy access to clean water and food, both for the horses and us, is everything we need right now.

“It’s perfect,” I say enthusiastically when we go back to the cave entrance. I run my hand on the walls: even though the cave is close to the river, it’s reasonably dry.

“We should stay there for a while,” you propose, and you drop your backpack on the ground before stretching your arms with a pleased sigh.

“You think so?” I beam at you. I must say I’m very happy about it: we don’t find that kind of place everyday.

“It’s probably gonna get hotter and hotter over the next few weeks and we’ll all need a fresh shelter. So yeah, I think it’s the best thing.”

To get to the cave, we have to climb on a steep, narrow path. Not a problem for us, but Fern and Nettle let me know how displeased they are when we guide them up to the cave. I promise them we’ll take care of that. We should be able to enlarge the path a little and remove the most annoying rocks along the way, without making it too obvious.

“We should get to work,” I announce after we’ve unsaddled the horses and stored our stuff in the cave. We lead them to the meadow so they can graze for a while. “ _Fern, Nettle, I want you to call us if anything happens,”_ I tell them before we leave. “ _We will be close but we must be careful. Understood?”_

Of course they understand; horses are smarter than people think they are. I’m not worried.

We craft a makeshift broom with some brushwood and you start wiping dead leaves and small stones out of the cave, while I gather a large amount of wood and set up a large, sturdy campfire with stones and logs. We’ll need it to last if we’re to stay more than a few days.

Once it’s done, it’s time to prepare our bed: we go back to the meadow and start gathering dried herb, before shaking it outside of the cave to remove potential bugs and stacking it in a corner of the cave, until it’s thick enough to be comfortable. Lastly, we unroll the sleeping bag on top of it.

“I can’t wait to sleep here,” you say after we’re done, eyeing the new bed with a longing expression.

“Tell me about it!” I whine, exhausted. But we’re not done yet.

At the end of the afternoon, we’re both covered with sweat and dust and you’ve got an insane quantity of little twigs and pine needles in your hair.

“Let’s call it a day,” I sigh, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. “You know what, I’ve got an idea.”

“You wanna go swimming in the river?” You ask, a hopeful spark in your eyes.

“How did you guess?” I laugh, clapping your back, and we start undressing without further ado.

 

Despite that stifling weather, the water is so cold I need half an hour to immerse myself completely. Meanwhile, you’re not even bothered, to my surprise; I guess the opportunity to cool off a bit was too tempting and you forgot about your aversion to low temperatures. Looks like you’re having the time of your life by swimming around and exploring the vicinity.

On my side, I’m glad I can relax and behold the fine, muscular curves of your back and your ass; the glinting of your left arm, the way your damp hair sticks at your shoulders and most of all, the look of delight and excitement on your face.

I finally brace myself and dive into water; I turn into an otter and I swim past your legs, until I reach a deeper part of the river. There, I find exactly what I was looking for: a middle-sized carp who’ll make a nice dinner for the two of us.

I drop it on a rock near our clothing and I shift back, lying down on the riverbed under the shade of a willow tree.

“Jules, come take a look at that!” You call, hunched over a large pebble. “What do you think it is?”

I glance down at the little critter you’re holding in your left hand. “Some sort of crayfish, I’d say,” I reply.

It’s trying to pinch your thumb with its little pincers—how adorable. I grab it carefully and put it back under the pebble.

“Shouldn’t we eat it tonight?”

“You really wanna eat that poor little buddy?”

“Hm… Not really. I mean, it’s cute.”

“Let’s leave it alone then, we’ve got enough food for now.” I point at the fish I just caught.

Your stomach emits a loud growl and you laugh, embarrassed. I hadn’t realized we ate nothing since this morning; I’m feeling starved too.

We wash each other’s hair in the river before going back to the cave with my catch. We didn’t even need to bring a towel—by the time we arrive at the camp, we’re already dry.

Fern and Nettle are already waiting for us near the entrance. They’ve had their fill of grass but you treat them by brushing their mane and giving them some grain we got in the last town we went through, while I light the fire and prepare the food. A large portion of rice with herbs and the entire carp, fried on a flat rock: we definitely need a hearty meal tonight.

 

The next few days are almost as busy as the first one.

First, we tie a piece of rope between two trees in front of the cave, and I teach you how to make laundry detergent with ashes and water only. It’s simple as that, we’ll never run out of the ingredients, and it won’t do any harm to the river. That way, we can wash all our clothes; it was about time.

We also figure it might be a good idea to cut some tallgrass and put it aside for the horses. It’s a lot of work and I quickly come to regret suggesting it in the first place.

“If only we had some shears,” I complain, loading yet another stack of herb on Fern’s back. She neighs happily, aware all that promising grass is meant for her and her daughter. “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, “you could at least help us, uh?”

Meanwhile, Nettle is rolling on her back in the grass and you’re laughing and scratching her belly. The grass you’ve gathered so far lies on the ground in a messy pile, your knife forgotten on top of it.

“Am I the only one who’s actually working here?” I scoff out loud; you both stop playing at once and glance up at me, mane and hair ruffled, the same expression of guilt and mischief on your face.

You two are a perfect match, aren’t you?

I’m pretending to be upset, but in reality I’m more than delighted by such a display of joy. I’ve noticed the more time passes, the happier you seem to get; although moments like today are uncommon enough, to the point I cherish them like a treasure. These are glimpses of the person you used to be seventy years ago—not that I expect you to become that man again, hell no, but it’s good to see they could never break you entirely. Behind the shell of pain and misery they’d built around you, your soul was still mostly intact, alive.

The grass dries under the sun near the rivershore for a few days, before we put it in front of the cave—that way, the horses will have a nice food supply for when they’re not grazing around.

In the end, the cave almost feels like a home. We’ve arranged it and now it’s quite cozy. Bunches of mint and chamomile I found nearby are dangling over the cave entrance, spreading a sweet, fresh smell all around the room. I plan on using it once it’s dried to refill my herbal tea bags; they’ve been reduced to almost nothing over the course of the past few months, thanks to you and your unconditional love for my infusions.

I even build a rough shelf with large branches and twine so we can store our food—it’s much better than our backpacks or the ground. I just hope we won’t have to leave hastily. We’ve collected an impressive amount of herbs, roots and fruits like blackberries and wild strawberries. Thanks to the survival handbook we got somewhere on our way, I’m able to identify with precision what’s edible and what might kill us. It’s not so different from America, after all. I refuse to pick local mushrooms, though: these things can be damn dangerous and it’s not the right season yet. The rare ones we find in the underwood look suspicious anyway.

 

Since we don’t have to walk and ride all day long anymore, we’ve got more time to kill so we have sparring sessions every morning. Alas, I’m not getting any better with throwing knives. To me it’s a lost cause, although you persist, convinced I’ll get talented one day or another. You can be so optimistic sometimes.

Muscle soreness comes back with your training. I never really work out; my wild lifestyle usually keeps my body in shape. Yet, you insist on doing a fuckton of push-up and the like before every session. A kind of activity I hate, as you soon learn.

“C’mon, it’s so pointless,” I whine, exhausted, after a third neverending series of pull-ups under a tree. My hands are numb, not to mention my arms, and I feel ridiculous, hanging onto a damn branch like some stupid monkey. “Why don’t we just start fighting? It will do the same job!”

“Doesn’t train the same muscles,” you tell me, deadpan. Bare-chested, you’ve done a good hundred push-ups—with only the right hand—on the ground below me and you’re not even breaking a sweat.

“If that branch breaks, it’s gonna be your fault, Bucky,” I argue with an annoyed pout.

It’s a low blow and you don’t fall for it. “I’ll catch you, then. Now do some more.”

“Ugh… asshole.”

“I love you too, sweetie.”

I sigh, assessing whether or not I can talk my way out of that exercice, but you’re staring up at me with an impassive expression.

The fight lesson after that was even more exhausting; you won over and over until I got fed up. Now we’re bathing in the river, the cold water soothing my scrapes and bruises.

“I’m never gonna be able to win a real fight,” I grumble, throwing tiny stones into the river. “I’m not strong enough.”

“I already told you, it’s not about strength. And you could use your own skills if you wanted,” you reply.

“What do you mean?”

“Using your shapeshifting gift might give you an interesting advantage. I’ve been thinking about it lately.”

“Yeah, but I can’t really do it unless I’m naked, and it’d suck in a real fight.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Why don’t we give it a try anyway?”

So the next day, I end up facing you, stripped of all my clothes while you’ve kept your boxer briefs—you know I wouldn’t be able to focus if you were completely naked too. It’s already hard enough like that. Damn, these thighs of yours are so distracting.

“This is so insane,” I say, shaking my head. “You realize I’m not gonna attack you as a wolf or something, right?”

“I’d rather avoid that,” you laugh.

“What can I do then?”

“I dunno, just evade my attacks for now?”

We’re going for hand-to-hand fighting. I remember that day in the snow, with the wolf pack, using my abilities to slaughter as many men as I could. This isn’t very different, and I manage to dodge most of your kicks and blows by shifting into a sparrow or a kestrel just the right time, flying away before coming back to swoop on you.

It’s not an awful strategy but in the end, you win just like every time, although I made it a little more difficult than usual; you’re sweating and panting as you immobilize me face down on the floor, an arm twisted behind my back. You straddle me with precise moves, your thighs around my waist and your crotch purposefully grinding against my ass. I squirm, a vain attempt to push you away while relishing in the exquisite contact of your body on mine.

“Y’know I could turn into a mouse and escape anyway,” I tell you in a muffled voice, glancing up at you. I’m practically eating the dirt.

“But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” You quirk a flirty eyebrow at me with another firm thrust of your hips. I moan then I start coughing, because some dead leaves somehow found their way into my mouth.

“Ugh. Release me and I’ll show you what I’m gonna do to you,” I hint.

“Alright then.”

You’re so gullible—and horny, uh? As you let go of my arm to stand up, I quickly turn around on my back, shoot my leg out and swipe your knees to distract you; I catch your left arm before pushing it in the opposite direction until you lose your balance. You fall facedown with a surprised curse and I take the opportunity to pin you down and reverse our previous position.

“So? Who’s the winner?” I taunt, grinning ear to ear.

“Me.”

“Ha! I don’t think so, my love.”

You pat the ground twice with your right palm; this time, I release you for real and I sit down on my bare ass.

“I won because I’ve taught you well. And…” Leering at my lower belly, the pride in your gaze is instantly replaced by a lustful hunger. “Because I’ve made you hard.”

“Well that one’s quite easy,” I laugh, blushing, looking up at you with the same desire.

We’re both dirty as fuck, leaves and dust and sweat all over our skin and hair, but we don’t give a flying fuck about it: making love is the only thing that matters now. We’re feeling overwhelmed by an acute and vivid feeling of being alive together, an urge to make it real in every possible way. It’s raw, it’s loud, it’s visceral, we’re most likely looking like some disgusting cavemen—good thing we’re in the middle of nowhere—and I think I’ll have mud stuck into my ass for the rest of my days.

  


I can’t tell how much I’ve loved the endless afternoons we spent lying down in the meadow, lazily huddled against each other and lulled by the song of the forest—insect buzzing all around, sparrow hawks calling for their mates, blackbirds singing in the trees. The smell of hay and sun-warmed grass. My fingers tangled in your hair, your left hand on my stomach and our breaths mingled together as we shared sloppy kisses and ate wild cherries we found on the way up.

I know that sounds like a sappy, clichéd picture. I’ve never been a romantic person but god, all those moments felt so good, I didn’t even know it could be a real thing. These were peaceful days, kinda like when we stayed by the lake for a month or so in the Appalachian Mountains. Nothing to worry about except looking for food and making sure you’re safe.

Because of the heatwave, you keep you hair tied in a loose bun at all times and I have to say, it makes you cute as hell. It has been growing a lot since I cut it for you during winter, however it seems to please you as it is now. You can’t stand your beard anymore due to the weather, so with that hairstyle and a close shave, you look much, much younger. And you’ve even got a tan lately—the result of basking in the sun by the river every time we can.

For all these reasons, I can tell without a doubt you’re healthier; more alive, in a way. You used to be so sickly when I met you. Brittle hair, pale dry skin and definitely too skinny for a guy of your size. Hadn’t been eating much for three straight months. After all, Hydra didn’t even bother feeding you with actual food. Only water and nutrients—and drugs to keep you docile—directly injected in your blood before and after each mission. A weapon doesn’t require food, only maintenance, and that’s what they did to you. After that you had to learn how to eat again. It wasn’t easy, that’s the least I can say, but you made it. More than a year later you’ve finally stopped looking like a ghost.

I’m so proud of you, Buck. Your body is thriving, and your mind, well… It’s doing as good as it can at this point.

Night terrors still punctuate our nights on a regular basis. I can be there for you during the day or when you wake up in a jolt, yelling and weeping, but I can’t do much for what takes place in your mind when you fall asleep. Even the horses have trouble identifying what’s causing you so much distress; they usually show up by the cave entrance, asking me about your condition and I can only tell them _he’s been hurt by very bad handlers,_ because in a way, that’s true, that’s what happened, and it’s a word they can understand since they suffered the same.

_“He’s free now,_ ” Fern tells me one night you wake up covered in cold sweat. She can smell your torment.

“ _Yes, but his pain isn’t gone yet,”_ I explain, running my hand up and down your back. You’re lying in a fetal position, mumbling to yourself—or to someone else—in a voice so faint I can’t hear what you’re saying. You’re being unresponsive, lost in a place where I can’t find you. I reach to stroke the side of your head but you flinch violently at the touch. My hand falls on the space between us. _“There’s nothing we can do.”_

Fern’s ears have a little flick. “ _He must find the courage to let go of his chains. So he can run free, find new paths. And raise his offspring, one day. With you?”_

I smile. Oh, my wise Fern. If only I could tell her you cannot undo seventy years of agony; an entire lifetime wouldn’t be enough. But such a length of time isn’t a concept horses can grasp easily.

“ _This isn’t a path we can take,”_ I just say.

“ _Why?_ _You would make beautiful foals,”_ she assures me. “ _Kind.”_

I laugh. “ _Thanks,”_ I neigh quietly, and she leaves the cave with an affectionate nod.

I don’t tell her this will never happen anyway. She couldn’t understand the fact human like us are never given that kind of life. But even if we had it, would we be happy? Would we be feeling freer than we are now?

 

——

 

According to what you told me, it’s been roughly one year since you defeated your programming and escaped from Hydra. So many things have happened since, and I wonder how you feel about it. You never mention it unless I bring the topic up, or when you’re feeling so bad spilling the words out of your mouth is the only kind of relief you can get.

“Do you think he’s looking for you?” I ask one day during lunch.

“Who?”

Your sudden inability to make eye contact tells me you know exactly who I’m talking about. “Steve,” I precise nonetheless.

“Even if he does… He probably hates me now.” I don’t know a lot about what happened between you two last year, but enough to be sure that’s some bullshit.

“Bucky. You’re his best friend since childhood, right?”

“I was, yeah,” you say with a slight shrug.

“That kind of bond never really disappear.”

“I’m not who he thinks I am. Not anymore. I’ll never be _him_ again.”

_Him_ , that is, the Bucky you used to be seventy years ago. Before the war broke you—you’ve briefly told me about it—and before Hydra achieved to shatter you.

“I know that. But if he loved you back then, he’ll love you now as well,” I say.

You don’t answer, looking away with a deadpan face, and you take a large mouthful of lentils.

“I’m being serious, Buck. Sometimes, living in the woods and stuff, I feel like I’m isolating you from everything you need to get better. I don’t want that.”

You swallow down and finally stare at me right in the eyes. It’s one of those deep, meaningful gazes you give me when you wanna convince me of something. And it works all the damn time.

“He may be searching for me as we speak, but he’ll never find me here. That’s all I need. I don’t wanna be anywhere else but with you, Jules, and you should know that by now,” you say, almost sternly.

Oh. Did I offend you? I’ve _definitely_ offended you. “That’s not what I was implying,” I defend myself. “I just need to make sure hiding in a cave in the middle of nowhere is what you actually want. I’d never force you to stay with me.”

“And I’d never force myself to stay if that wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Then we’re cool.”

“Yeah, we are.” You take our empty plates and get out of the cave to wash them in the river. Alone. Once you’re out of hearing range, I let out a long sigh. Everytime I mention Steve and the fact you could be reunited with him at last, the same thing happens. It makes you upset and distant all of a sudden and I can’t get a single reasonable answer from you.

But avoiding him at all cost won’t do you any good in the long run. He’s the only one who’s known you since the beginning of your life. Since _before_. And I’m scared to be the reason things are stuck like that.

That would be the worst, really.

 

You don’t come back to the cave right away, to the point I’m starting to get worried. Did I piss you off enough for you to leave me? “Fuck it,” I curse out loud, and I rush outside.

My heart is racing as I look for you everywhere around the cave. In the meadow, I question Fern and Nettle about your whereabouts and when they say they haven’t seen you since the morning, I start to lose it.

_“What happened?”_ They ask, worried. I run back to the river without even replying.

“Bucky!” I shout, panicking, looking all around.

A distant call down the river. I follow the path in that direction. What if you’re in trouble and I’m too late?

But thanks god you’re there, safe and sound, crouched over the riverbank. I join you as fast as I can without startling you. You seem to be staring at the rushing waters. The dishware lies in the sand next to you, all cleaned.

“Bucky,” I sigh in a trembling voice, relief showering my nerves. I sit down on your left without another word, catching my breath. You don’t seem to notice how bad I’m feeling.

“One day, maybe,” you say flatly. “But not now. Please.” You turn to face me and—oh god, you’re crying.

“Hey. Hey. I wasn’t gonna make you to meet him against your own will. I’m not like that.”

“Yeah… Just—”

Your left forefinger curls around mine and we stay like that for a minute or two, eyes downcast.

“I almost killed him,” you blurt out.

“I know.” I squeeze your metal hand, compassionate, but you jerk back with a disgusted noise.

“You wanna know the worst? I enjoyed it. I just wanted him to stop talking and I _enjoyed_ shutting his mouth up by myself. With that fucking fist.”

You raise your hand up between us; it’s glinting and whirring as you move your fingers slowly.

“And then he said something, that punk, he reminded me of what I had promised him when we were young—that I’d always be with him no matter what.”

The more I learn about your relationship with Steve Rogers, the more I’m convinced you weren’t just friends. Whatever happened between you two, it was deep, meaningful and certainly way more ambiguous than you believe it was.

“You think I should be with him?” You ask, your eyes wide and glistening with tears. So much hope, so much fear.

I swallow down, a sudden tightness in my throat. Hearing it turns out to be more painful than it should. “Maybe…,” I mumble, biting down on my lower lip.

Does _with him_ means _without you_? At this point I’m too afraid to ask. I’d hate to end up in some fucking love triangle, it’s a goddamn unhealthy pattern and I’ve been despising it since I was old enough to understand how romantic relationships work. That’d be so fucked up.

“You know, some days, I know I love him, I _know_ it, but I don’t know why,” you say.

“That’s a lot of knowing,” I comment in a weak attempt to lighten your mood.

You snort. “I know… Dammit. I mean—sometimes, I can’t even remember why he’s so important to me.”

“It will come back,” I say. “Eventually.”

What will happen then? Will you leave me for him or something? _No, that’s impossible_ , I tell myself. You said earlier that you wanted to be with me and only me. But what if you changed your mind once you’re reunited with him?

I hate to say that, but the fact you haven’t found a good reason to go back to Steve yet offers me a comfortable position. That way, I don’t have to torment myself with determining how I should fit in your relationship with him. Provided I’d have the right to fit.


	16. Chapter 16

_ A riverbank, Carpathian Mountains, August 2015 _

 

To my relief, you don’t mention your issues with Steve much more after that time and I figure I should stop bringing up the topic. Time is stretching as summer settles in the mountains. I don’t look at my calendar anymore; daytime getting slightly shorter over the weeks tells me we must be close to August. The cave feels like a home, a haven where time doesn’t have a meaning anymore. 

Even though we never bump into people anymore, I’m still learning Romanian. It’s a little bit harder now that you’re my only interlocutor. But I prefer to be alone with you rather than enduring the discomfort of meeting new, unpredictable people who might as well recognize you and report us.

I learn how to name many animals, herbs and trees, how to describe a landscape and carry on a fluid conversation for more than five minutes. At some point, you decide we should only speak Romanian and from now on I spend all my days getting familiar with how the language sounds, making it sound fluent. 

It’s harder than learning how to fight.

I mean, if only I had a way to get human languages instantly, just like it does when I acquire a new animal shape, that’d be so cool. But I guess that’d also be cheating, and I should be content with what I already have.

 

As I already said, these are mostly peaceful, carefree times. I especially remember a pleasant afternoon and I hope it’s a good memory for you as well.

We’re both perched on a beech trunk that fell over the river, and you’re cutting the tiny hair around my ears with our pair of scissors. It was about time. I asked earlier if you wanted a haircut too but you said you were alright. Today, your hair is falling over your left shoulder, long waves shining under the sunlight. What a gorgeous sight—I get why you don’t wanna cut it shorter. 

“Let me know if I hurt you,” you say.

“Bucky, you’re cutting  _ my hair. _ I’m not that frail!”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“I know, I know,” I laugh, patting your bare leg. My hand lingers there for a long moment, enjoying the firmness of your thigh muscles, the soft tickle of tiny hair all along your skin and the slow pulse of your blood, warm, vibrant.

We’ve been spending more and more time without a single piece of cloth on our back when we’re in the cave or at the river. Why would we need it anymore? It’s convenient for me because I can shapeshift whenever I feel like it; for you, it’s a good way to accept your body as it is now, to come to terms with your scars. Plus I suspect you love the way I look at you when you’re naked. 

Once you’re done with my haircut, I suggest braiding your hair since it’s getting slick with sweat and it’s clearly bothering you. More than a decade ago, I used to braid my sister’s hair every time she asked. I’m a bit rusty now, but I manage to make an acceptable French braid after struggling for fifteen minutes or so. 

“Look at you, princess,” I drawl, “A couple flowers and you’d be the prettiest of them all.”

“Don’t be silly,” you scoff, but you’re blushing and beaming, your feet dangling in the water underneath. 

“Just wait here,” I say and I stand up, turn into a raven and fly off. 

When I come back with a bunch of alpine gentians and forget-me-nots in my beak a few moments later, you’re still on our spot, lying down on your back with your left hand plunged in the river’s current, while the right one’s playing with your braid. You’re looking so peaceful I’m almost sorry to come back and bother you with my stupid ideas. You laugh as I land on your left shoulder with a muffled croak, drop the flowers on your chest and hop down behind you before shapeshifting again. 

“You really gonna do that?” You ask, resting your head on my lap.

“Yep. Now stop moving, please.”

Adorning your hair with the flowers takes me an eternity—they’re so delicate to handle—but in the end you’re looking ravishing, with these electric blue and azure shades coming down from the sides of your head to the tip of your braid. 

You tilt your head backward and say, “So, how does it look?” A sunray hits the side of your cheekbone as you smile, shyly.

“I’m so in love with you, Buck,” I gush, laying small pecks on your temple.

“You only love me when I’m being pretty?” You ask, pretending to be shocked.

I sneak a flower in your ear; you jerk up with a startled sound, scratching your ear frantically. “What’s that?” The flower falls in your palm and you throw it at me, huffing. “C’mon, it’s not funny! I thought it was a goddamn bug.”

“Well well, look at that, Bucky Barnes is afraid of insects!” I laugh and you splash some water at my face with your foot.

Speaking of which… Coming out of nowhere, a blue dragonfly—it’s almost as large as my hand—lands next to one of the gentians I tied to your braid and you have a soft gasp, tightening your shoulders with a wince, scrunching your nose up. How cute.

“Uh, Jules? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Don’t move, and let it rest.”

“What does it want?”

“Either use you as an island or try to fuck the flowers on your head.” Actually both the insect and the gentian have the same color, so it might mistakes it for a potential partner.

“What!?”

Suddenly a second insect appears on your left shoulder, then a third on your hand, and soon we’re both surrounded by colorful iridescent wings, fluttering all around. It’s such a sight; I laugh in amazement while you look  _ horrified _ .

“Don’t complain, it could as well be a swarm of mosquitoes,” I giggle as a dragonfly walks on my neck.

“Do they eat people?”

I snort. “Of course not! They’re harmless and known to be a good sign.”

“They’re so many it’s almost scary,” you say. As if a bunch of insects could ever harm you.

I shrug. “Well I guess it’s mating season. They’re gonna be everywhere for a while.”

“I ain’t gonna let them raw each other on me.”

“Not like they’re giving you a choice though.” I point at your left shoulder, where two dragonflies are indeed getting quite busy together. You chase them off with an outraged exclamation. 

Giggling, I let you struggle alone with the dragonflies and I dive in the river. The air is so stifling bathing in the freshwater feels like being born again. I swim for a moment before coming back to you; you’ve finally given up and let the dragonflies do whatever they’re up to on you. You don't seem to suffer from the weather as much as I do—lucky you.

“I’m gonna die,” I whine, floating on my back in the shallow waters, my head resting against your legs. “How the fuck can you even handle that heat?”

“I dunno,” you say with a gentle smile, and you pour some fresh water with your feet on my torso. I’m pretty sure you do, actually, but you don’t feel like telling me today, uh?

“I used to go back to northern States during the summer, or I would hide in big cities where it’s easier to find places with AC,” I tell you. “But here… I’d have never imagined it’d be so hot.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Just like you’re getting used to your new little friends!” I tease and you roll your eyes at me.

“You know what? I’m gonna name this one Lil’ Asshole, and these two will be Punk and Jerk.”

“How fitting,” I say . “ I’m sure you’re gonna be best friends.”

I put my arms around the tree trunk and my cheek on the smooth bark, letting the lower part of my body float lazily in the water current.

_ If only we could live here forever _ , I think, captivated by hundreds of different sensory inputs. Chickadees, cuckoos and black woodpeckers singing in the treetops above us. Higher, the repetitive shriek of a goshawk. The buzzing of dragonflies all around and bumblebees a little farther, working on a flower bush. The summer sun heating my shoulders, the tranquil water flow along my thighs. I breathe deeply. The air smells like river mud and freshness and damp moss.

There’s your scent, too. Home.

A light touch on my forearm; I open a lazy eye. I was practically dozing off. You’re lying on your stomach and your left hand is brushing the silhouettes of my tattoos. Despite the heat, I get goosebumps as your fingers slide up to my elbow.

“Did it hurt? The tattoos?” You ask. 

“Not all of them. The fox and the cat on my ribs were a pain in the ass. The birds on my shoulders? Piece of cake, compared to  _ that _ .” And I show you the small owl on my left triceps, just below my armpit.

“When did you get all them?”

“During the first three years after I left my parents’ home. Tattoos are expensive as shit, but I had just stolen all of my father’s money, and I was a dumb teenager with ideas. I should’ve kept it for wiser purposes.” I have a wry smile. 

“You regret it?”

“Hell no. At the time, I was living right above a tattoo shop in Philadelphia. The owner became a friend and guess what, she was a talented artist as well. She let me have all of them for much less than it was supposed to cost. She needed someone to practice on, and I had time to kill, you see.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Thanks. It was worth the pain.”

“I don’t understand how pain can be worth anything.” Your eyes get dreamy all of a sudden and I look at you with a frown, afraid it might’ve triggered something bad. You touch the otter on my left shoulder blade, just below the fresh scar of the knife cut I got in the aircraft. “There was a guy living across the street, he used to tattoo people on his spare time… One day Steve decided he wanted one, he was like, fourteen. He had saved enough money from his job as a paperboy and made up his mind but I did anything I could to put him off.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah, because I told his ma about it. She got so mad at him, she took his savings and said she’d give it back to him when he’d be more responsible,” you say, beaming wistfully. “And then he didn’t talk to me for an entire week.”

“What an asshole,” I laugh. 

“We were both stupid kids.” You shake your head. “And he was the most stupid of us two.”

“I beg to differ,” I snicker and you stick out your tongue at me like a damn kid. “I’m glad you can remember all this,” I say then, more seriously.

You have a deep sigh. “It’s not enough.”

“Still something.”

You nod, your lips curving in a thin smile—almost forced. I already know many memories will never come back to you again, no matter how hard you try to recall your past. You haven’t been writing much in your notebooks lately and I suspect you don’t have much to record anymore. 

It might be a good sign—your brain has finally put your whole past together—or a bad one, if it means some memories are lost permanently. I know you’re afraid you’ll never be able to recover everything you once had. Like you told me once, it’s a life devoid of landmarks, and you’re treading on a thin line, blindfolded.

And what can I do about it, except trying to distract you when those thoughts fill your mind?

“Hey, Buck. You have a spider on your ass,” I say, deadpan.

You get on all four with a panicked sound. “Where? Where!?”

“Just kidding,” I snort.

“Fuck you, Jules!”

Dying of laughter, I jump in the water and I swim as far as I can.

“Come back here!” you shout, splashing some water at me. You dive down as well and, since you’re such a fast swimmer, you catch me a minute later. We struggle for a bit in the shallow water; in the end, I jump on your back and we both fall in the mud, laughing madly.

Your braid has unravelled, and the flowers are mostly gone with the current. I watch them as they disappear in the distance—tiny dots of sky on the silvery surface, swept away to god knows where by their own destiny. 

One of them gets stuck between two metal plates of your left shoulder, near the scarring, and that’s how I realize beauty can thrive even in the most devastated soil.

 

——

 

Endless forest. We haven’t seen a single clue of human civilization since we left the main trail and got deeper in the mountains. Sometimes we’ll hear a plane high in the sky, but that’s all. These lands have been left mostly untouched and most of the trees are practically giants: they’ve never tasted the cruel blade of a chainsaw. The wildlife is scared of us, though, a blatant sign that animals are aware humans hunt them down when given the chance; but we haven’t encountered any huntsman yet. Maybe it’s not the right season, maybe the area is too remote and rugged for them. In any case I’m glad we’re all alone.

We explore as much as we can, mainly to locate new food sources but also for the sake of enjoying long walks and finding beautiful places.

Today, we’re walking up the river that goes by our cave. I wanna know where it starts, if possible—even though I suspect it comes straight from the high peaks in the north. At some point, we begin to hear the distant roaring of a big waterfall and I wanna see that, so we pick up the pace on the narrow, muddy path.

“What did you want to be when you were younger?”

I raise an eyebrow, amused by the sudden question. “Would you be surprised if I told you I always wanted to work with animals ?”

“Not at all.”

I lick my lips, gathering my thoughts. “When I was a kid, we weren’t allowed to have pets at home. I mean we had a dog at some point but…”

This isn’t a nice memory. I make a pause, running my hand on an oak tree as I walk forward. 

“Around ten years old, my sister and I mentioned at a family diner that we wanted to build a rescue shelter. My father laughed and said women couldn’t possibly build anything, let alone handle it all by themselves.” I make a face.

“He was always trying to force you to be a woman,” you say, somber.

“Yeah. To him, I lacked what would’ve made me a real man. As if that’s what I wanted to be in the first place! Anyway—I got angry and told him I didn’t need his permission to do it. We got humiliated in front of the whole family and sent to bed with no dessert and after that, he ensured we’d drop the idea eventually. He sold the dog and once, he even killed himself the bird with a broken wing I had rescued on my way back from school.”

“What a crazy asshole,” you snarl, frowning in revulsion. “But I guess it didn’t stop you, hm?”

“Hell no. I only wanted it more, out of spite. I built myself a shack in the woods nearby where I’d bring injured animals to heal them, feed stray pets and the like. Then I started to go to the library and borrow books about animal behavior that I’d hide in my shelter, and I decided I’d study this field one day. You see, I had a unique perspective on the topic, and unlike most scientists, I wouldn’t have hurt my subjects in the process… I’d have studied them in the wild, not in some creepy lab. I wanted to change the way people consider animals; I wanted the world to see them as equals rather that soulless machines that must be treated as disposable objects. Considering my own abilities, I would’ve been the best in my field!”

I’ve been monologuing, lost in my distant childhood dreams; I stop walking to grab my bottle and drink a long sip. You nod in understanding. “But?”

“But once again my father said it was a stupid idea and an useless job and he told me I should rather become a lawyer or a doctor.” I make a disgusted face. “Boring.”

“And your mother?”

“She never really thought I could make a living out of that but she supported my choice anyway.”

I hand you the bottle, laughing wryly. “In any case, the universe decided I should rather be some kind of forest-dwelling hobo instead of a famous scientist. That’s too bad. I could’ve changed the world!”

“It’s never too late,” you encourage with a faint smile.

“There’s no way I could ever have an actual career again. I’m wanted by the American authorities all over the country and it doesn’t look like it’s gonna get better any time soon.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t understand, Bucky. Having a normal life with a regular job doesn’t interest me anymore. I’d rather be here with you, believe me.”

I take your hand in mine and we walk further until we reach the damn waterfall. It’s beautiful. Large moss tufts are dangling from the rock formation that welcomes the rushing waters; right below, there’s a rock-strewn pond that seems to be quite deep. We should come back here to bathe one day. It might be fun.

We sit down in the grass for a while and share a handful of blueberries. The purple juice stains your metal fingers; you lick them absentmindedly while I have to look away, a sudden tingle squeezing my crotch.

“What about you?” I ask, eager to resume our conversation.

“Well I already told you about the park ranger thing, I think?” I nod. “But after that I wanted to be a teacher. I was good at school, you know. I just remembered that.”

“A teacher… Yeah, that suits you so well,” I say. 

You look all embarrassed, a slight blush reddening your cheeks. You’re kind, caring and I’m sure people used to love to listen to what you had to say. Just like me, nowadays. You don’t talk much though when you do, it’s always a delight. 

“But then we had no money and I had to work to help my mother as soon as I left school, so I kinda forgot about that.”

“We both had to give up our dreams, huh?” I say.

“Seems like it, yeah. I never did anything important, in the end. Nothing really helpful.”

“Oh come on, I’m sure you helped a lot of people.” I don’t mention the people you most likely saved during the war. I know it doesn’t count for you.

“Well… I used to feed stray cats like you, when I was a kid.”

I give you a fond smile. That’s the way you are, looking after those nobody else care for. The invisible, the rejected, those our world has deemed too weak to be worth it. 

“At some point there was a dozen I used to take care of every evening. I remember a douche calling me a crazy cat lady, and Steve tried to beat his ass.” You laugh.

“But cat ladies are so cool!” I say. “When I was a little kid, an old granny was living alone with her five cats in the house behind ours. I used to visit her all the time when I could get away from home—until she passed away. You know I even suspect she was an actual witch, because she used to teach me about medicinal herbs in her backyard and she made the best cookies I’ve ever tasted.”

“That’s why you know so much about plants?”

“Yeah, more or less—at least she taught me the basics. She was nice. She never had children but she enjoyed being an honorary grandma. She used to tell me, “don’t bother getting a husband, they’re all useless!” A good advice, don’t you think?”

You smile, shaking you head with a soft chuckle. “She wasn’t wrong, I’ll give you that.”

Suddenly I hear a shuffling in the dead leaves across the river. I tense up, already sliding my hand in my pocket to grab my knife; but my jaw goes slack and my hand falls on my side when I realize it’s a goddamn wolf who’s coming out of the woods, only twenty feet away from us.

It’s a small male with his thin summer coat, a shade of grey that’s so pale it’s looking white under the sun. He looks quite young. Still, he’s an adult; we both stand up slowly and I step backwards to stand between you and him without taking my eyes off him, without letting him think I’m afraid.

He comes down the slope on the other side of the river and starts drinking the fresh water for a while, his tail wiggling happily. If he’s noticed us, he doesn’t show it at all.

As you take another step back, ready to leave if needed, a twig snaps behind your shoes; a blackbird flies away with a warning cry. The grey wolf looks up at us and jumps back on the bank but he doesn’t flee, to our surprise. He yawns before rubbing his muzzle in the dirt, sniffing intensely, unbothered by our presence on its territory. Then he seems to hear something in the distance and he runs off to the north, disappearing in the bushes.

“What the hell…,” you murmur once he’s gone. “It wasn’t a dog, right?”

“A wolf,” I tell you, my voice trembling with garbled emotions. “A fucking wolf.”

It’s such a rare sight—that time with the wolf pack in the Appalachians was an exception. Wolves can usually sense us from a great distance and they avoid us as much as possible. To catch a glimpse of such an elusive creature is extraordinary, to say the least.

I gulp down, looking around, and I say, “If he’s living here then the rest of his pack must be close too. Come, let’s leave.”

 

That same night, I keep having weird dreams. A black wolf and a white one are running on a thorny path at dusk, side by side, chased by an invisible hunter who soon becomes a hoard of twisted beasts; the white wolf crosses a river but the other is too afraid to dive and they both tread the shore, their every move mirroring each other’s, but they can’t be reunited; the monsters are gone but the wolves remain separated and suddenly I can see through the black wolf’s eyes and their mate is gradually vanishing; I see patches of white fur between the trees and I call, I call, and the more I howl, the more he moves away until he’s gone for good.

I wake up in a jolt, covered with sweat, a dog-like whimper breaking the night’s silence. I take a quick look around me—at this point I’m half-convinced the wolf we saw earlier is in the cave—until I realize it’s coming up from my throat. Sighing, I roll on the other side to cuddle against you.

You’re not in the bed anymore.

“Bucky?” I call, a heavy weight settling in my gut.

Your side of the bed is still warm, though, so I quickly get on my feet and go outside with a blanket around my shoulders.

To my relief, you’re standing near the entrance, still, your body stiffening with some kind of anticipation. The horses aren’t sleeping anymore, their ears turned towards the direction you’re staring at.

“Are you okay?” I ask, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“He was here,” you say, eyes locked on the uphill path. 

In the mud ahead, I see a paw print, deep and clearly defined. For a second I’m afraid I’ve been sleepwalking as a wolf—it has already happened to me before—and I look down at my hand but no, there’s no mud stain, and I don’t feel the taste of rabbit blood on my tongue.

“Did he wake you up?” I ask in a whisper. I haven’t heard anything.

“I wasn’t sleeping. I heard the horses getting nervous outside and when I got out to calm them he was just there, sitting on that rock—” You point at a big boulder overlooking our cave. “And he looked right at me with moonlight in his eyes and it’s like he was telling me something, it was so… So intense, I don’t know.” You shake your head, strands of hair tickling the back of my hand.

“Weird,” I comment, frowning. This isn’t a typical wolf behavior.

“Yeah. You think he’ll come back?”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m worried about Nettle and Fern,” you admit.

“Wolves don’t attack horses, usually. Certainly not when they’re on their own. But you’re right, we should let them sleep with us in the cave now.”

The strangest thing is, I had never noticed a single wolf trace in the area. No dead deers, no scent marking, no howling at night. He must be quite new in the vicinity, which is unusual. I hope he wasn’t raised by humans then released in the wild, because it might cause us some trouble. Especially he if decides to follow us everywhere—I’m not gonna adopt a fucking adult wolf.

Even more disturbing, the dream I just had. It’s fading into oblivion now that I’m fully awake but the eerie vibe lingers. I stare at your bare skin, made whiter by moonlight, and I shiver, chasing away a surge of confusing thoughts.

  
  


——

 

_ A rainy day, Carpathian Mountains, September 2015 _

  
  


At last, the weather’s getting colder, damper; summer won’t last forever and I’m pretty sure this is the first sign autumn is on its way. We even find what seems to be the first wild apples of the year, along with hazelnuts and walnuts. Once again the forest provides; we only have to put aside what we don’t need immediately. Our stash grows larger and larger over the days.

Thanks to that, I think we’ll be able to stay in the cave for a couple months at least, before the upcoming winter chases us to more welcoming lands. I don’t know how harsh the season will be in those mountains, however I bet it won’t be sustainable for the four of us. Perhaps we should leave right after the first snowfall. Yeah, that’d be the best.

But we won’t have that much time.

Today isn’t a good day at all. There was a sudden lightning storm earlier while we were gathering berries in the forest, and I had to practically carry you back to the cave. Now the storm is gone and you’re lying in a fetal position, silent and motionless, while I tend the fire, hoping the smell of roasted meat will eventually take you back to the present.

It’s still raining cats and dogs, though. 

It’s been going on like that for three days straight. The horses are outside, grazing—they don’t mind the weather, unlike us. 

I sprinkle some pepper and dried herbs on the rabbit legs I’ve been cooking before placing it on your plate with roasted apple slices—I don’t feel like eating right now and you definitely need a nice, copious lunch. 

A constant runoff from the back of the cave is getting on my nerves. I’m aware this must be the water spring filling up with the rain; I hope it won’t get dirty with mud and other scrap because if that happens, we’ll have to find a new water source. 

But when the sound gets closer, louder, I come to think the situation might be much worse than just that.

It’s a freaking flooding.

Astounded, I put the plate on the ground and I rush to the passageway that leads to the spring. The first wave licks up against my toes and goes straight to the cave exit. It’s nothing big and for a brief moment I’m relieved—up until a second one comes up, then a third. Each one bigger than the former. Like a sinking boat, the water must be seeping through trenches and holes in the rock and the more it puts pressure on those breaches, the more it enlarges them, allowing more and more water to flood our cave. A vicious circle.

I know this can’t be stopped. There’s nothing we can do except running away before it gets too serious. A few moments pass during which I gather our bags and hang them out of reach around a branch outside. I call the horses with a loud neigh; their faint answer tells me they’re already on the way. 

I go back inside: the water has now entirely filled the main room. Our fire has died so it’s dark as hell; I wade in the water until I bump into the bed. You haven’t moved an inch.

“Buck.” No answer. “Bucky, we have to go now,” I urge you, grabbing your shoulder. 

You curl up even more, your fingers clutching at your chest and your eyelids shut tight, clearly refusing any kind of contact.  _ Shit _ , I think. Now isn’t the right time—and it’s an understatement. 

“Bucky!” I call, louder this time. Do I have to splash cold water at you? I don’t wanna come to this, but the situation is getting worse and I don’t fucking know what to do. “Bucky, I need you!” I shout, and I cup your face between my palm, forcing you to look at me through the mist of your memories. God I hate doing that, I hate it so much.

I press my brow against yours. “Please,  _ iubițel,”  _ I beg, caressing the nape of your neck. Only then you emerge from your waking nightmare and you notice the murky waters soaking our makeshift mattress and your bare feet. You stand up clumsily, clutching at my shoulders, looking all around you with panicked eyes.

“Wha—what’s going on,” you stutter weakly. 

A low rumble covers up my answer; I turn around and inhale a sharp breath as another wave—bigger, devastating—starts spilling into the cave. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, this is the [alpine gentian](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/XAXME5/alpine-gentian-gentiana-nivalis-blooming-germany-XAXME5.jpg) and the [forget-me-not](https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2015/05/15/20/31/forget-me-not-769232_960_720.jpg). 
> 
> I'm taking a long summer break because I haven't entirely written what's coming in the next few chapters, and I need some time to finalize it. I should be back near the beginning of September!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment, I'd really appreciate some feedback!


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